#he still has dark skin but it doesn’t glow and shimmer with life anymore like it did in spring

[bindinglove]

i’m a very dark skinned lucien truther because on top of his natural skin color bro stays in the sun and ur telling me he’s not a beautiful shade of deep and golden ??? ur tripping

(he loses his golden glow after being in the NC for too long imo)

[astermacguffin]

What if the Mark of Cain manifests differently when it's imprisoning God and not the Darkness? If the Darkness makes the Mark bearer go insane with unbridled want for destruction, then what does sealing God make you do?

An obsessive desire for creation? Creation to the point of corruption? (Think of the Shimmer from the film Annihilation. Continuous reproduction to the point of begetting alien, cancer-like entities. A refracted, distorted notion of creation.)

Okay, so canon divergence from The Trap. They successfully seal away Chuck, then Castiel bears the Mark. (Jack won't be back until later episodes, so he's not here yet.)

At first, they think he's fine. Cas says he's not feeling any bloodlust just yet. (He does feel a certain itch under his skin. Not a desire to murder, but a desire to do...something. He doesn't tell this to anyone.)

His grace is getting stronger, almost archangel-like (if not more). It's incredibly helpful for hunts, and Cas is happy to feel his wings healthy again after a long time. Sam is happy for him, but Dean is suspicious of things (especially since he's a previous Mark bearer).

After a while, Cas starts feeling...burdened, almost bloated by grace. (After all, he does have access to an infinite supply of it.) He needs to have an outlet for it.

Cas tells them so and Sam suggests healing people. Dean gives the green light on the condition that he remains invisible and he doesn't go Godstiel on them again.

It's a great outlet, and for the first few weeks they start feeling normal again. But unfortunately, healing stops being enough to relieve Cas of his excess grace anymore. The mass healings start to pile up all across the globe and it catches everyone's attention. Some think it's a blessed miracle, some think it's a sign of the end times. They make him slow down on the healings after that.

Without an outlet, however, Cas starts feeling antsy and pained. They brainstorm on possible alternatives. Cas suggests going to Heaven and saving it from collapse by healing his brethren's wings and creating more angels out of consenting souls in Heaven.

He explains Heaven's endangered and dwindling numbers. Sam agrees that it would hit two birds in one stone: relieve Cas from excess grace and prevent the extinction of angels. Dean doesn't like the idea of more winged dicks so he shoots down the idea. Eileen says that since Cas is the one in pain, he should be the one to decide.

Ultimately, Cas defers to Dean's judgment (as always). Sam protests, arguing that he can't just shoulder that pain. Cas replies: "I've suffered worse, Sam."

Cas doesn't complain about the pain for about a week, so for a while, everyone believes him when he said he can shoulder the pain. One day, Dean finds him outside the bunker, groaning in pain as he bleeds himself out, his grace pouring into the ground and sprouting plants. Dean sees this and is finally convinced to allow Cas to make more angels.

What follows then is a series of escalating events:

While Sam and Eileen are practicing their witchcraft for spell they need in a hunt, Cas suggests to enhance Sam's physical and magical abilities using his grace. "It will make the process faster and safer," he reasons. He agrees, but Dean eyes this suspiciously.

During one of their hunts, they encounter a young and freshly-turned vampire. The boy begs them not to kill him, and Cas gives him a proposal. "Promise not to feed on humans ever again and I shall cure you of your hungers and your pains. Pledge your allegiance to me and you shall never be afraid of yourself ever again." The boy agrees, and before Dean could even protest, Cas slices his palm and feeds the vampire his grace.

They argue about the grace-feeding in the Impala. Dean notices Sam's pointed lack of complaints and figures it out. "You're in on this, aren't you? How long has Cas been doing this? He's going Michael behind our backs and you're letting him?"

Sam argues that it's different because Cas isn't making super monsters; he's making them less "monstrous" (whatever that means). Sam's obsession with his own "purity" is key to understanding him here.

One time, Dean catches Cas in his "garden" ("forest" seems more apt with how lush the greens already are) creating butterflies and bees out of thin air using his grace alone.

Reports of the miraculously healed people suddenly gaining new abilities like increased strength, heightened senses, and prophecy start popping up. Some are experiencing phantom limbs, talking about their sprouting "wings."

Sam is becoming addicted to Cas' grace to the point that he willingly lets himself be hurt in hunts just so Cas can cure him. Dean confronts him about this, but Sam just argues that he's "never felt this pure before." Eileenn shares the same concern as Dean.

Hunts are becoming less frequent the more monsters are being "cleansed" by Cas. The world is becoming disconcertingly quiet.

Cas' "garden" is starting to emit this strange aura. The plants and creatures growing inside it are starting to look more...alien.

One of the original angels goes to Dean and tells him of Heaven's affairs. The Host is stable again, but the angels he created are...not exactly angels. They're graced up and they sustain Heaven, but their true forms are "horrifying and incomprehensible, even to an angel." The angel adds that more than 60% of Earth's creatures have already been touched by Cas' grace.

The final nail in the coffin is when Dean catches Cas in the garden fiddling with his angel blade. It's emitting a strange glow, vibrating a subtle hum and looking as if it's liquid, flowing and distorting here and there.

Dean asks him what he's holding. "Oh, this?" Cas responds. "This is the Last Blade. Last, not in terms of time but in concept, for no other blade shall ever compare to it. The spark of creation. Fiat lux."

Dean's heart sinks. Of course. The First and the Last, Alpha and Omega. "Cas...the Mark, I think i-it's scrambling your brain, man."

"I know," he replies, eyes wet and apologetic. It's a small moment of lucidity amidst weeks and months of...whatever that was.

"Okay, okay, so you're still you, that's... that's good. Okay." Dean doesn't know how to approach this. Give him a fight and he'll know what to do, but this? Watching his best friend, the love of his life, be distorted into something incomprehensible? Yeah, this is totally beyond him.

"You know, I used to hate Chuck," Cas says. "How could the Father of All Creation be this angry, petulant child? But," he continues, "knowing what I know now, it's either regressing into a petty child or being reduced to insanity."

"Cas...what are you talking about, man?"

"No mind should bear this burden, Dean. No matter how infinite they are," he says, voice trembling in exhaustion.

(more below the cut)

He continues. "The awareness of everything is the awareness of nothing at all. Imagine perceiving every possible piece of information about the world all at once. Seeing light in all its forms all at once: ultraviolet, infrared, etc. Sensing all the neutrinos zip by, sensing gravitational waves, sensing the slighest bit of seismic activity."

Dean doesn't know how to respond, so he lets him go on.

"Knowledge can only ever be a slice of the Totality of Truth. Truth is absolute chaos, and Knowledge is the partial ordering of this chaos. One can sanely approach Truth only through organized paritions of Totality. Why do you think Chuck is so obsessed with stories? Stories are linear and finite; they're sensible snippets of the endless sea of possible worlds."

"So, what? Are you trying to—"

"I'm not trying to justify Chuck's actions, Dean," he interrupts. "I just want to contextualize them. Chuck's simplistic and repetitive narratives are what they are: manifestations of a chaotic Totality, gone insane trying to understand itself. Looking for simple things to hold on to."

Cas takes a deep breath. He speaks with a shaky voice. "I'm barely holding myself together, Dean. I can feel the universe beneath my skin."

He doesn't know what possesses him to ask, but he does it anyway. "What are you holding on to?"

Cas smiles at that. "You."

They stare at each other for a while, frozen where they stand. Cas, with unrestrained affection in his face. Dean, struck by shock and indecision. It's Cas who first breaks the silence.

"I think we both know what needs to be done, while I'm still lucid enough." Cas slices his palm and lets his blood drip down the soil. He then thrusts the Last Blade into the ground, lifting it when the soil glows.

Dean stared in awe as the ground erupts and a familiar shape rises from the hollow. "Is that.."

"The Ma'Lak box, yes. I also enhanced it with the Blade to be able to house things as powerful as me."

"Cas, wait, maybe we can think of another way to—"

"Dean," he says, calmly. "You know there's no other way. I wouldn't ask this of you if there was."

In any other scenario, Dean would've kept arguing, but even he knows that they're running out of time. Sam's grace addiction is getting worse and all the creatures touched by Cas' grace are slowly mutating into eldritch horrors. Dean offers a shaky nod. "Okay."

Tension visibly releases from Cas' body. "Thank you, Dean." He opens the box and enters it with ease. "When you lock this, bury me with the garden's graced soil. Once I'm under, my influence over the world should dampen."

Dean gives a wordless nod. For a while, they just stared at each other, Cas lying down and Dean trying to memorize every inch of his face while he can.

Cas presses his hand into Dean's left shoulder where his mark used to dwell. "My untainted grace," he whisper gently. "Some of it is still inside you. That's probably why you're not as affected by me."

Dean wants to say, I'll always be affected by you, but he holds himself back.

He takes his hand back, a bloody handprint now on Dean's jacket. "I love you, Dean," he says, breathless.

"Cas..."

"I probably would've built up to that if we had more time but," he makes a surprised laugh, "I am, as you would say, already 'losing my marbles', so."

The air quotes would've been funny and endearing in any other scenario, but it just makes Dean's vision blur up with tears.

"Thank you for everything, Dean. I know we've done nothing but repeatedly hurt each other these past few years, but I don't want to spend a deathless eternity with that as my memory of you. I forgive you, even for the things you haven't forgiven yourself for yet. And I'm sorry for everything, especially for ending things like this."

He should probably wipe away his tears to clear his vision, but Dean can do nothing but stare at Cas in awe, in fear, in grief, in reverence. They're both fully crying now.

"Goodbye, Dean."

"Wait, Cas."

Cas looks at him, waiting.

"Can you...can you say it again?"

He doesn't need to clarify what 'it' means. They both know.

With one last mournful smile, Cas says: "I love you, Dean."

And with that, Dean finally gathers all the strength he needs to shut the lid and lock the box. He stares at it for a while, unblinking. He forgot to ask, Can you hear my prayers down there? But it's too late now to ask.

The box automatically lowers itself into the hole it arose from. Now all that's left to do is to cover it again with soil.

Dean doesn't bother with a shovel. He gently buries the box with his hands deep in the soil, some of it getting trapped under his nails. He continues the mindless task, whispering a tireless series of I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I hope you're okay I'm sorry, over and over between his quiet sobs. Cas is quiet inside the box. No screaming or crying. Dean doesn't know if that's better or worse.

When the final clump of soil is pressed into the mound, he suddenly feels it: a visceral shift that echoes throughout the world. The alien glimmer of the garden dims, and the world corrects its axis. Dean screams his agony into the air.

That's how Sam finds him: sprawled over a mound of soil, crying his heart out. Dean doesn't need to say anything: he knows what happened. He pulls his brother off the ground and brings him inside the bunker.

For the first two weeks, Dean cycles through drinking and passing out in various places in the bunker. If he's not wearing the jacket, he's holding it with close to him. Sam gives him a considerable space to grieve while he monitors the world grace problem with Eileen. The grace mutations have significantly dropped since then and everyone's going back to normal.

Unfortunately, that means monsters are getting hungry again. Sam doesn't want to leave his brother alone after going nonverbal with grief and dysfunctional due to alcohol. Eileen assures him that she can handle hunts on their own and that the hunter network that they're building will lessen the workload.

Sam's attempts to sober Dean up finally work, mostly due to the latter having very little strength to protest. Dean remains sober an entire day for the first time in weeks, and all he can think about is: I haven't prayed to Cas in a while. The longing might have reached him, but never a coherent prayer.

The first time he goes out of the bunker in a while, he heads straight to Cas' garden. Sam's glad that he's finally going out because "the sun is good for you" or something, but he's really only here for Cas. He kneels in front of the burial mound (where a patch of an unknown species of flowers is already growing).

The first prayer he says to him in a while is: I love you, Cas. I should've said it while you were still here. Not saying it out loud and just strongly thinking about the words somehow bolsters him to get the words through.

He's crying again, and he knows he's losing coherency. In his mind, he's explaining about his hangups and his regrets and his continuous denial of his own joy, but one constant remains: he's beaming all his love and affection into this prayer.

He's halfway through explaining all the traits that he finds endearing in Cas when suddenly, he feels it like a snap. If the glimmer dimmed when he buried Cas, now it's as if it was never there in the first place. With an unsettling amount of certainty, Dean just knows that Cas is gone. For real, this time.

"C-cas...?" It's the first thing he's said in a while and it sounds rough in his long unused voice.

"CAS! CAS!!! " He's now screaming, ripping away the flowerbed with his bare hands and scratching the soil away. Tears are obstructing his vision, but he has no time to wipe them away. He needs to make sure that is really gone. His hands are bleeding and he doesn't give a damn.

Eventually, Sam comes running towards him. "Dean! Dean, stop!"

He tries to hold his brother back, but Dean just keeps on clawing away soil. "Sammy, Sammy he's gone, he's not there anymore, Sammy I have to see, please, let me see Cas again, I need—" he breaks into sobs again, and like a puppet with its strings cut off, he slumps into Sam.

"Dean, it's okay, it's okay..." he says softly to his shaking brother.

Eventually, when Dean calms down, he looks at the carnage he's done and starts sobbing again. The flowers, his last evidence of Cas being here, are all destroyed. Now Cas truly is gone.

. . .

When Cas first heard Dean's confession prayer, he was overcome with joy. When he realized what that means, however, his stomach suddenly sinks.

He hears before he sees the Empty arrive, slithering like black goo.

"Wow, were you excited enough for eternal slumber that you wanted a preview?" The Shadow teases in Meg's voice.

At first, he was dreading the Empty, but now that he thinks of it, it's actually the perfect prison for him: a vast, endless nothingness for him to fill with his creations.

And if Jack wasn't in Heaven, that only means that he's in the Empty, and he can't wait to see his son again. Even when blinded by the madness of the universe, he can never forget the joy of being a father.

"Yes," he replies, "I'm actually glad you're here now."

. . .

Somewhere around the globe, Billie drops Jack back.

"Don't worry, kid. You'l reunite with your father very soon."

(to be continued)

[gureishi]

Smutty Seven + 18 with a female reader?? Hehe

Hehe indeed. Thank you for the request, darling anon! There are a million fics about this sort of scenario, but I wanted to write one so bad, so now there are a million and one ;)

breathe, darling, breathe in deep

Saeyoung X Reader, E, Words: 2322

cw: outdoor sex, light gagging (hand over mouth)

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

It is the way he rolls up his sleeves that does you in.

The room is lit by amber-colored lamps and hundreds of real, flickering candles—a touch of which you are particularly proud. From across the vast, glittering space, you watch him. He is laughing, and when he laughs, his face is lit by a sort of otherworldly glow that makes your breath hitch. He is talking to a small group of guests, commanding their attention with remarkable ease: when he wants to, he can shine so bright he’s almost blinding.

And, even as he talks energetically, he is rolling up the sleeves of his black button-down shirt (so casually, as if he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it). His fingers are nimble and clever and the candlelight strikes the muscles in his forearms. Your stomach does a flip.

“…a lovely idea, dear,” says a voice—closer and louder than the sound of his laughter—and you drag your mind (kicking and screaming) back to the older woman beside you.

“Oh,” you murmur, demurely as you can manage—not even sure which element of this particularly elaborate party you are being praised for. “Thank you.”

The woman beside you smiles kindly, gesturing at the broad wooden doors, cast open so as to extend the party from the banquet hall into the garden. Ah: and it is this that she is complimenting; these doors are normally closed, but you asked for them to be left open so the room would smell of fresh night air and gardenias.

It is subtle—but the scent of flowers on the air makes guests cheerful, and cheerful guests make larger donations. It took some trial and error, in the beginning—but nowadays, you can plan a successful charity party practically in your sleep.

She asks you about the flower varieties, and you do your best to explain (thanking your lucky stars that you’ve got a brother-in-law who knows a thing or two—or more—about flowers). As you speak, you look out at the garden—and can’t help sneaking another glance toward the opposite corner of the hall.

Saeyoung is running a hand through his hair—which is parted neatly tonight, the way he’ll only do it when you ask nicely. As if he feels your eyes on him, he tilts his head—the tiniest gesture. He sees you.

He winks.

A shiver runs up your spine. His arm muscles practically shimmer in the candlelight, and his clever fingers mess up his styled hair just enough that you’ll notice. He knows, you think, exactly what he is doing.

Your toes tingle.

Two can play at that game.

Knowing that he’s watching now (wondering how you’d doubted even for a second that his eyes—in spite of all pretense—were on you to begin with), you give the woman beside you a dazzling smile.

“Would you like to see the garden?” you ask her. She smiles right back, and you toss your hair triumphantly. She tells you that she would be delighted.

So you lead the way, straight through the middle of the ballroom. Your dress is silky smooth, and all it takes is a little wiggle for one sleeve to fall artfully over your shoulder. You don’t look his way as you pass—but you feel his eyes on you: thoughtful; curious; captivated.

You linger in the doorway, letting the moonlight do the work for you: highlighting your silhouette, casting your body in a sort of soft shimmer. Another guests joins you, and you dive into an account of the history of this piece of land—which has been related to you by the manager of the venue at least once a week for the past three months. The facts have become ingrained in your mind—so you talk lightly, only half-listening to yourself.

Meanwhile, you reach back to gather your hair up in your hands. The garden air isn’t hot, but it is warm enough that no one so much as looks twice as you lift your hair, exposing the back of your neck.

No one but Saeyoung, of course—whose gaze you can feel viscerally now, searing your skin. Ah, you think—now it is hot. You pull your hair forward, over your shoulder; one of the women is laughing at something the other has said and, not even having heard the joke, you join in—hoping your voice sounds natural even as your toes curl in your shoes.

You can’t help another peek. Oh: and he is transfixed.

A few others have joined the group of people in the far corner, but he isn’t speaking anymore. You have his full attention, and his eyes are fiery; you give him a tiny smile, as if to say I dare you.

“…would like to see that,” one of the women is saying. Your fingertips dance over the slit in your long dress. With a gesture that you hope is subtle, you flick your skirt aside—and the thin fabric flutters around you, exposing your thigh to the night air.

Your heart is racing.

You can never hear his footsteps, even after all this time. He walks like a cat, light and silent—but you sense that he is coming for you. You grin in spite of yourself; the women, oblivious, ask if you would like to explore the garden with them.

“Go ahead,” you murmur. “I’ll join you in a moment.”

With polite smiles, they are off. There is a gentle breeze: it dances in your hair and plays over the bare skin of your leg, your shoulder, your neck.

You count your heartbeats: one, two, three—

And then there is whisper, low and rough, in your ear.

“Are you trying to kill me?” he growls. His hand lands on your hip, and you can’t repress a little shiver. Your skin sizzles where he has touched it.

“You started it,” you whisper, still looking out at the garden. He shifts closer, and you can feel his warmth as his body presses up against yours. He is tense, you think—wound tight like a spring.

“I rolled up my sleeves,” he hisses. “You…you…”

“I what, sweetheart?” You turn, then, and the look on his face catches you off guard. His eyes are dark, his pupils huge—and he looks absolutely ravished, though you haven’t so much as touched him yet.

“Since when?” you ask, your face flushing. He shifts uncomfortably and it takes all the willpower you have to keep your eyes on his face rather than checking if he’s—if he’s already—

“That dress,” he mutters, his eyes boring into yours, the heat from his body making you squirm. “In the candlelight, and—”

You grin. You knew the candles were a good idea.

“Does this mean I win?” you purr, giving your hips the tiniest little shimmy. He shakes his head as if he can’t get his genius mind to think straight.

“You always win, babe,” he murmurs. His other hand drifts up to your waist—and you are conscious, all of a sudden, that you are standing in the doorway, in full view of both the candlelit banquet hall and the moonlit garden.

You cast a glance to the side, trying to discern just how much attention you are attracting. He seems like he’s lost his sense of place altogether.

“So do I get a prize?” you whisper.

“Oh god,” he groans, his voice shaking as he tries to keep it low. You bite your lip.

“Breathe, baby,” you say. You run a hand up his arm and he takes a quiet, shuddering breath, shifting his weight back and forth like it’s taking all his restraint just to stay still. “You’re in luck.”

“And why’s that?” His voice is so rough; electric heat pools in the pit of your stomach.

“Cause you married a party planner,” you tell him. “And the thing about party planners is we pay attention.” Before he can respond, you grab his hand, pulling him through the doorway into the fragrant garden air. He follows unsteadily; you lead him down the stone-lined path, carefully sidestepping the group of guests clustered around the rose bushes.

“Pay attention to what?” he asks weakly. Once you are past the little group on onlookers, you pick up the pace; he matches you easily.

“The history of the venue,” you say, laughing. “The ground plan. Nooks and crannies.”

You turn abruptly onto another, smaller path and he takes a shuddering breath.

“No way,” he says slowly. It is dark here, and there is not a soul in sight; you glance at him—there is a wicked grin spreading across his dizzy face.

“You trust me?” you ask. He holds your hand so tight.

“With your own life,” he murmurs, “which is infinitely more important than mine.”

You reach the end of the path and kick off your heels. He follows wordlessly as you dart through the grass, through a thicket of trees, and—at last—behind a small, rundown shed.

“Here?” he asks. But there is raw need in his voice, and his eyes shine like golden stars in the darkness.

“You want me?” you ask him. You flip your hair over your shoulder and cock your hip and he groans.

“Do I—?”

And then he is on you, his hands gripping your hips, his lips crashing feverishly into yours. He is walking you back, back—you feel the wooden shed against your bare shoulders and throw your arms around his neck. He lifts you, his hip rocking almost frantically, and you wrap your legs around his waist (infinitely grateful that you chose the dress with the slit in the skirt after all).

You slide a hand between your bodies and undo the top button of his pants. His erection strains, already, against the soft fabric and he hisses as you graze it with your fingertips.

And then his hand is on your thigh, creeping up your skirt—and your head falls back as his clever fingers find your underwear. You are so hot, already, so needy, so desperate for him—and when you feel his finger move against you, you moan into the night air.

“Quiet, princess,” he purrs, his fingertip fluttering. Your vision blurs.

“Make me,” you say.

He laughs darkly and presses you harder into the wall of the shed. With your arms and legs tight around him, he lets go of you entirely and—one hand still fluttering against your underwear—claps the other forcefully over your mouth.

“How’s that?” he whispers. His low voice swims with lust, and your thighs shake as you squeeze them tighter around his hips. You nod furiously.

Leaning back against the shed, you take one trembling hand from his waist and unzip his pants, tugging at his underwear. But you are pressed against him so tightly and the angle is wrong and you can’t quite—

“Let me help you with that,” he murmurs. He takes his hand from your mouth to pull his underwear down—and, with a sort of wild longing, you run your fingers along his length. He bites back a low moan, his eyes fluttering shut.

“Now,” you hiss. “Right now.”

You are so very close to the edge of freefall and the sight of his desperate face pushes you ever nearer. He adjusts, shifts in your arms—and his breath is ragged, and his face is full of wonder—

He thrusts into you, and you come apart entirely.

His hips rock into yours and your your body shakes around him. You float on the flower-scented air, your lungs full and your body weak and your muscles vibrating as you let yourself be carried away. He finds a rhythm and you melt into it with him, your eyes shut, your hips shivering.

He rocks you back into the shed—hard—and you bury your fingers in his hair and succumb to the sensations; he shudders, so you lean forward to graze his earlobe with your teeth.

“That’s—” he hisses, struggling to focus on you, “—not playing fair.”

You take his cartilage into your mouth and bite down and he loses his rhythm, his thrusts becoming erratic—his hands bruising your hips, his breath harsh and uneven.

“I want you to,” you whisper, and he lifts one hand to your jaw; you look into his burning eyes and he dissolves.

Your hands tug at his hair and you hold him tight; for a moment, he stops breathing entirely.

He shivers—gasps for air—falls still.

“You—” you pant. “We—”

He kisses your jaw and lowers you ever-so-gently to the ground; you wobble where you stand and he wraps an arm around your waist.

“The party,” you whisper.

For a moment, he is quiet.

Then he laughs—oh, and his laugh is beautiful, clear and bright as the stars, and you laugh with him: leaning into his shoulder, tears in your eyes.

“Do you think,” you gasp through your fit of giggles, “everyone knows?”

He grins lazily down at you.

“The guests? No,” he says, with confidence. “They wouldn’t notice if a rocket ship landed in their midst as long as the champagne is still being passed around. But our friends—”

“If they know us at all,” you say. “They shouldn’t be surprised.”

His eyes sparkle.

“Nothing wrong with an evening stroll in the garden with my beloved wife,” he says, throwing you a roguish wink. You lean into him.

“Never change,” you say. His expression softens and he presses his lips to your shoulder.

“I am who I am,” he tells you firmly. You tilt your face upward to catch his lips in a fleeting kiss that tastes like nighttime.

“And who’s that?” you ask.

Saeyoung smiles.

“Yours,” he whispers, “of course.”

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

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[gripefroot]

A Court of Dusk and Shadows ❲1❳

The throne was white. 

No - it was every color of a sunset. With the descending sun blazing behind it, it turned gold and orange and pink and purple. New shades spreading across with each passing minute as night crept on. And beneath it - shadows lengthened and spread from the carved base, wild and free. 

The throne beckoned. Come sit, it said to me. Come take your place. 

Beyond the throne were marble pillars that stretched proudly into the sky, woven with vines of moonflowers and orchids. I could not see any roof - dusky clouds obscured the view. And below, far, far below - the sea rippled in shining waves, beating against the island in shimmering hues. Boats with bone-white sails seemed to drift forever. Distantly I could hear voices: voices laughing and talking and teasing and bargaining. The calls of animals, the hammer of forges. 

And everything smelled of salt and fragrant flowers and lemon. 

But I could feel, rather than see, what was making my heart wrench away from the lovely sight. A hand outstretched in front of that throne, leading up to a smiling face clear of sorrow and fear. 

A scarred hand. Extended from the dark, and I knew that between us was where light and shadow met.

Come sit, he said, echoing the throne. Come take your place, and I’ll be at your side forever.

⚘ ⚘ ⚘

The night was an inky black shield dotted with silver and gold. Velaris far below, the stars above and only the whistling wind and thump of his own heart for company: Azriel’s gaze honed in on the House of Wind as he descended, and hoped that none would question his tardiness. 

His boots landed silently on an upper balcony.

Halls were unlit, creeping with silence. The shadows that came with him curled around his neck and ears, whispering that nearly everyone was asleep. There would be no interrogation that night, at least - though breakfast might be another matter. But that would be for the morning. He slipped into his bedroom and closed the door behind him, resting his forehead against the wood panels for several heartbeats before turning wearily away to find his rest. 

A cozy fire had flickered itself to life, the wrought-iron window springing open to let in more of that sweet night air. He lingered only to unstrap himself of weapons, setting them on the table beside his bed as his thoughts skittered and bit at him like hungry wolves. 

Azriel had been gnawed for so long he wondered how they found any part of him left to devour. 

Truth-Teller shone like a void in the light as he pulled it from its sheath, if only to look at it. Scarred thumb tracing over the hilt - with a sigh he shoved it back in, and put it aside. 

The knock on his door was so quiet that he might not have heard it, had the shadows spreading from him not trembled in response. They slithered up the door to turn the knob, his head lifting in a jerk as he scented his visitor - the sweet, heady jasmine that wore itself on her skin like a blessing. Or a spell. 

A click behind her. The door was closed. 

The wolves barked. Azriel turned, hand lifting to rub the back of his neck in an unconscious gesture as he forced himself, as he always had, to keep his expression even. To betray nothing. Even though the sight of her lace robe over a silken, lilac gown that displayed her creamy throat so well was enough to move him to his knees. To say nothing of the loose curls hanging down her back - wanting to be touched. Wanting him to bury his face there and breathe her in until she lived beneath his skin - 

“You were missed,” Elain said. 

“I was occupied,” Azriel said shortly. Her head tilted slightly to the side, and at his glower the shadows that crept curiously around the hem of her nightgown scattered, leaving her free to glow in the golden light of the fire. 

“Why don’t you come to family dinners anymore?” she asked, her voice softer than rain. 

He swallowed. A tremor went through his wings, and he stretched them out slightly to ease the tautness. Her eyes flitted to them over his shoulders. He saw the bob of her throat. “You know why,” Azriel told her in a hoarse, harsh voice. 

Elain lifted her chin, though the expression in her lovely eyes shimmered. “If it’s me you’re avoiding, I’ll stop going,” she said.

“No.”

“You should be with your family. They miss you.” 

“No,” Azriel said again.

“I don’t know how much longer I can attend, pretending that nothing’s wrong with me,” Elain said. “That my heart doesn’t hurt more each time you don’t appear. Azriel,” she breathed, and his spine stiffened as if brushed with a tender finger from root to tip. “I - I don’t want to go anymore. I don’t want the reminder that you - that you don’t want to see me.” 

Secrets were best whispered alone in the night: Azriel had always known that. Known that honesty could burst out at the right moments, if prodded enough, uncaring of the consequences it could bring.

As for him - the consequence was like a poisoned knife between his ribs, where he felt the emptiest. 

“The best solution is for you to go instead of me,” Elain went on in his silence. “I’ll be happier knowing you are.” 

“I’m not happy,” Azriel said. But she merely lifted her slender shoulders, the lace rustling against the silk. As if she didn’t care to wonder why he’d said it; the extent of what he’d meant. His honesty was kept deeper down and further back. Where it couldn’t hurt anyone who could hurt him. 

“I’m not going to go to family dinners anymore,” she told him. As if her mind was made up. “I hope you do.” 

“You’re hurt when I’m not there,” he said. “No different than I am at your absence.” 

It was all the game. It had to be. The repeating, the declarations, the anguish: pushing at the walls each of them had built around the other, as if looking for weak spots. To crumble, or to build back better. Azriel didn’t know. Something in him was howling. 

Elain’s eyes began to glitter. The shift of the firelight against her hair, the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed - 

Something clattered from elsewhere in the house. Azriel stiffened, wings snapping in as his gaze darted to the door behind her. He ground out between his teeth, “You shouldn’t be here.” 

“I want to be,” she whispered. “I can’t stay away.” 

The jasmine - he realized her scent wasn’t fresh and blooming. He’d noticed it when she first came in. It was heady. Like it had been scorching under the summer sun, begging for water; thirst to be parched, or the petals to be plucked and treasured - 

Azriel’s head spun. The wolves that ate at him yipped and scratched and whined. They wanted. They wanted. 

“If you’re looking for release,” he said in a low growl, fingers clenching into fists at his side. Cracking a whip at himself to quiet the wolves, but still they snarled.  “Lucien Vanserra can be summoned.” 

“I don’t want Lucien,” Elain said sharply. The color was high in her cheeks as she tucked a curl behind one of her delicate ears, the simple motion drawing his attention like a drawn bowstring. “I want you.” 

His next words were difficult, but he forced them out: “Rhys has...commanded that we stay apart.”

“Rhysand isn't my High Lord. I’ve sworn no oath to him.” Her pink tongue darted out to wet her lips. “He can't command me.”

“He commands me,” Azriel said. 

“Then tell him I coerced you. Whatever you need.” The lightness in her voice was pleading. Begging. Her slender hands trembled, eyelashes stark against her skin as she blinked furiously. Desperate. 

“No. I won't let you face censure, or - or punishment - ”

“Not being with you is punishment every day,” Elain cut him off, and Azriel nearly swallowed his own tongue as he saw the glitter in her eyes escape to trail a silver path down her flushed cheeks. “Lucien is punishment for me, isn't he? I was given to someone I don't love. Someone I don’t want. While you are denied to me. Is this not punishment?”

Every fiber in his body wanted to cross the space between them: to reach out, to dry the tears and to hold her in his arms until she stopped trembling. Until that gaping wound beneath his ribs was whole and glowing again - 

Azriel didn’t smile, though the irony wasn’t lost on him. “It feels like it.” 

Her bottom lip quivered. Then, “Please,” in a yearning whisper that started unthreading him from his very bones. The wolves purred as he took a step closer to her. 

“Elain,” he murmured, and she trembled at her name, eyes closing briefly as if to savor it. “They’ll know. It...it can’t be hidden. I’d leave my scent all over you. And you on me. And I’d never, ever want to wash it off.” 

“It’ll wear off,” she said. 

“In days? Weeks? How long will we hide?” 

Elain didn’t answer, and he took another step closer, unclenching his fists as he breathed slowly through his nose. 

“It's not just that, either,” Azriel said, and her head was tilting upwards to watch him, hungry and hot as he towered over her. “Once I have you...I won't be able to stop wanting to have you. Over and over again, in every way imaginable. I don't want to live another day on this earth without tasting you on my tongue. Smelling you on my skin. Feeling you. I would…” 

He trailed off, realizing that the night had somehow wrung more honesty from him than he’d ever intended. Her eyes blazed up at him, and daring, he lifted a hand to rest his scarred fingertips on the lace at her breast, beneath which he could feel the rapid pulse of her heartbeat. 

“I would want to be here, inside of you.” 

“Please,” Elain whispered again, barely more than a warm breath that brushed against his face like a shadow - but those stayed back. “Please, Azriel. I'm not afraid. Not of Rhys, not of Lucien. I'm afraid....of what my life will be without you. I'm afraid of wanting you for the rest of my life with no hope of having you.”

Her fingers curled over his on her breast, cool to the touch and he shivered head to toe as her thumb stroked along a rippled, white scar. Not even noticing it, with her eyes melting so intently as she stared at him. Lips slightly parted, only a few inches from his and ready to be tasted, and savored and worshipped. 

“Even if you refuse,” she went on, pressing his hand tighter to the skin-warmed lace. “You’ll always be here, where you always have been." 

“There’s nothing in me that can deny you,” Azriel said. Swallowed. “Elain.”

“Azriel…” 

“You could ask me to tear down Ramiel with my bare hands and I would,” he breathed. “I would tear apart any part of this world. If you asked me to carve out my own heart, I would.”

“I’m not asking for that,” Elain said gently. Mirror of him, her slender hand brushed up his chest - a shudder enough to cause an earthquake ripped through him. Without armor, only a dark shirt of cotton was between their skin. He could feel the warmth of her flesh as her palm splayed over his heart. “I’m only asking for you.” 

The drumming in his head must be his heartbeat. A warning, perhaps - or fate zeroed in on this moment. Where a future was held taut between them. A question between souls. Dark and light, as they’d always been. His dark, her light: she offered it freely. 

Will you have me?

Will you risk it all?

He could see in her shining eyes. I would risk it all for you.

“You want me,” Azriel said. Half a question. She’d already said it. At the dip of her head in assent, he closed the remaining distance between them with a step. The slight gasp between her lips warmed his face, but he didn’t give her the kiss she wanted - the kiss she’d asked for long ago - the kiss that he’d dreamt of until his soul was used up and dry. No, three more strides backed her against the wall as he heard her heart flutter madly beneath his hand. Closer still: he braced his opposite hand above her head, feeling the pattern of the wallpaper as his knee came between her legs. Trapping her. Pinning her. 

She trembled. But it wasn’t the acrid scent of her fear that was making her eyes bright. 

It was want. 

“I’m dangerous,” he growled in a low voice. Still Elain didn’t tear her eyes from his, even as her fingers balls into a fist with his shirt between them. “This is dangerous. You and me.” 

“I don’t care.” Not the breathy tone he’d expected. Something thornier, stonier, as she lifted her chin to face him more fully. But it just exposed more of that creamy, unblemished throat to him. An invitation. 

Azriel tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. Hair hung in his face, and her fingers softly brushed it aside. Jasmine. Jasmine. Jasmine. Summer, heady, hot flowers; slow-dripping honey - 

Chest to chest, pressing closer as if their skin would fall away and they’d be just one person from then on. His leg lifted slightly, the rustle of lace and silk - and he felt her, through the layers, as her dark lashes closed, lips parting in an uneven breath and he heard, more with his heart than his ears,

“Oh - ”

He’d rather be boiled by the Cauldron than face Rhys after this. 

And it would still be worth it. To watch the rose-pink deepen in her cheeks as her eyes fluttered open again. On his thigh she throbbed, and if he tried to push her away, he knew she’d rip his shirt apart, so tightly was she clinging to him. 

“Are you scared, Elain?” Azriel whispered. 

“No.” 

Her eyes had glazed slightly. Like she’d gone drunk at a sip of wine, yet stared down the bottle ready to drink it to the last drop. But he was the bottle, and the wine, and the drinker. Sucking in a breath, holding her quivering body in place, he lowered his head, tilting it to the side. 

His lips met her skin at a sensitive spot beneath her ear. He felt her tremble. Brushed downward to the base of her neck, savoring every inch of her as she whimpered a strain of incoherent noises he knew would play in his dreams until he was a corpse in the ground. Then, tilting his head again, he stared at the glistening hollow of her throat. Where her scent was the thickest. Richest. Sweetest. 

Azriel paused long enough to take her wrists in his hands, lifting them above her head as her chest rose and fell against him. His chin was nearly between her breasts, and though they wanted his attention and he wanted to give it to them - he kept his eyes instead on her throat. 

Elain was squirming. Not to get away, but to get closer. The frantic bucking of her hips against him - not close enough. He pressed harder with his leg until he could feel the grind of her bone against him, and his tongue darted out to that hollow to taste it the moment her moan rose beneath it. 

“There,” he breathed. Again she rubbed herself against him. He could smell the growing headiness from there, and the jasmine coating his tongue. He licked again, and again as she moved more frantically. 

His wings unfurled as he growled deep in his throat, talons reaching to dig into the wall - the house would repair itself later - and shreds of wallpaper fluttered to the ground as he steadied himself. And Elain. The way she was pulling him in, giving of herself so freely, wanting him - chasing pleasure he could give her, scant as it was...as if this would be all she was ever given. A drop of water before starvation. 

Azriel fastened his lips to one jutted collarbone, and sucked. Immediately he clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle her cry. Sweat was dampening her nightgown - more than sweat - and it was the most intoxicating thing he’d ever smelled. He tore his mouth from her skin to say in a hoarse voice, 

“Quiet. Don’t make a sound.” 

Slowly he removed his hand, then, and lifted his head enough to see the perspiration dotting her forehead. Eyes squeezed shut as her fingers dug into his shoulders, now. 

“Good,” Azriel rasped. “Keep going, Elain. Use me however you need.”

“Touch me.” Her plea was broken and wavering. “Please - Azriel - ”

He snarled. Gripping her hips between his hands, helping her to move against him. Guiding each undulation as her heart beat faster and faster and faster - her breasts were at his eye level, so high he was holding her off the ground - and he allowed himself one more luxury: he rested his forehead against her sternum, feeling each bob of her breasts on either side of his face. The slight snag of a hardened nipple. 

If she didn’t come soon, he would. 

But it was a mere moment later that she came: breathless and noiseless, like he’d commanded, but he felt the clench of her even on his thigh. The desperate throbbing, wanting to be filled but still cresting. Deeper breaths from her parted lips, a night-song of indescribable beauty. 

Azriel wanted her. He wanted her so badly he thought he’d die from it. 

Elain went lax, and he caught her ‘round the waist before she toppled over. Her head against his shoulder, wings still shrouding them - his nose really was in her glorious mass of hair, now, and because he knew this shouldn’t happen again, he breathed in the scent of her curls, over and over and over again - 

“Azriel,” she half-panted, half-sobbed. It made his heart wrench. The wolves in his head still prowled, still snarled - wanted to pounce, to stroke, to take - but no. No. No. He wouldn’t. 

Talons unhooked themselves from the wall, wings folding delicately back in as he lowered her to the ground. A moment of unsteadiness before she could stand, blinking up at him like the sweetest fawn on a spring day. Cheeks flushed red, eyes glittering, throat damp. A faint bruise was left there from him - it would heal by morning. He hoped. 

His trousers were unbearably tight. He could barely stand. But he did, and held Elain’s gaze as if it were a lifeline offered to his dying soul. 

Which very well could be the truth.

“Azriel,” she said again. Tucked curls behind her ear. But he merely bowed, instead of throwing her onto the bed to devour her until Summer Solstice as he wanted to do with every fiber of his being, and said, 

“I hope you’re feeling better, Elain.” 

Something like hurt passed over her face. Mouth pressed together in a thin line as she tugged the lace robe to lay straight over her breasts and shoulders. Azriel didn’t look. 

A single breath, drawn out like a keening wail of grief: Elain turned and swept away to the door, yanking it open to disappear into the blackness as shadows reappeared, gently closing the door to keep it from making a noise and alerting the sleeping inhabitants of the house. Azriel stared after her for a moment, fists clenched and empty and her scent all over him like a thick, woollen blanket. 

He hadn’t even kissed her. 

He stomped to the fireplace, tearing at the laces of his trousers to yank them off each of his feet. Threw the Elain-soaked pants into the fire. 

As if knowing his intention, knowing his agony: the house ate up the leather quickly, turning it to blackened, crumbling ashes that fell among the cracked logs. He still smelled of her, he knew it. He’d smell her even if he did manage to wash her off. His leg, his hands, his chest where she’d touched him, his face - she was everywhere. Everywhere. 

Almost everywhere. 

Azriel ached. He ached between his legs, almost like he’d been kicked with a spiked boot. Hurt so bad even without trousers that he didn’t want to touch himself. Instead he stared at the flames, and then the embers as they burned down and the shadows crept closer to swallow him whole. Still his heart beat on, a steady, unceasing rhythm that chanted with each pulse of blood - 

Elain. Elain. Elain.

TO BE CONTINUED

[lebenspurpur]

nocturnal - Vincent Sinclair

Pairing: Vincent Sinclair x reader

Summary: This is so poetic idek

Warnings: None 

********************************************************************************

I often think that the night is more alive and more richly colored than the day.

-- Vincent Van Gogh

Sunlight.

What an interesting topic.

It emerges from so far away human metric systems can't even describe the distance but somehow it still binds us to life. Without the touch of the sun's golden arms, we vanish.

It can kill as well. Sometimes the big star seems to be angry at us frail humans. Then it scorches down, its usual warmth gone and replaced by glazing heat.

I like to believe that the sun is like a mother to us.

Have you ever listened to a pregnant woman talk? Yes?

Then you know what I am talking about. They glow. As if the second life chained to their bodies sets them alight.

The sun glows as well. Maybe not in the same way a pregnant woman does but the star definitely does glow.

When mother sun is happy with us she gives us treats, warm days with enough wind to cool us down, protect us. When mother is angry she destroys everything that can shield us. Her fury is then inevitable.

But the sun is also dishonest. Her warm embrace is slowly destroying our home. I suppose her love is just too big.

And well if the sun is our mother, the moon is our father.

He guards us when mama can't. His arms aren't warm, they're cold and white. Somehow serene.

In my imagination mama wears a yellow suit. Her hair is the prettiest shade of orange, a nice and somber shade of marmalade. She's wearing her favorite sunglasses, red triangles to make her look like one of 'em hippies back before my time.

Papa wears a long, silver dress. It swivels around his feet when he moves and I can't help but marvel at the smooth movements of the cloth. A tiara is seated on his midnight-blue hair. It's silver and it shimmers like a thousand stars are kept in its crystals.

When mama laughs, birds start to sing and chirp. The plants lift their head to admire her white smile and the animals wake from their slumber to pay their respects.

When papa cries, his tears rain down on us. When they hit the shell our planet is kept in, they paint it in all kinds of colors. People travel miles to see papa cry.

There surely are thousands of other mama's and papa's out there. Thousand other children.

"You look sleepy."

"I'm not. I just feel peaceful."

We're silent. I can hear him breathing slowly. It is hoarse and raspy, like always.

He is in pain as well. I can feel his muscles, tense from being in pain. It must be horrible to have a constant ache in your throat.

I want to help him. I always wanted to. And helping him has been the biggest journey of my life.

The road has been long and bumpy at its best. Sometimes it completely stops and we have to turn around and find another way.

But we're slowly getting better at walking. Now it doesn't matter if the road's bumpy anymore. Maybe we will also get new shoes.

"What are you thinking about?"

I smile.

"You. I am thinking about you."

He moves over to me. I can feel him sitting down behind me. His thighs creep up next to mine. Seconds later I feel two arms envelop me.

His nimble fingers trace my hips without a care in the world, they keep on exploring my body like they help him see. Ten little eyes, one for each finger. Or more, who knows? Perhaps one finger has more than just one eye.

He sighs. The hot puff of air rushes past my ear. It toys with my hair for a second and leaves me again. Vincent's chin takes its place next to my face.

His skin is smooth against my face, I wonder how he keeps it so clean. It's cold as well indicating that he just entered the house.

"What did you do today?"

"I made a new statue."

Vincent works as a sculptor. That way he only needs wax and his hands to stay occupied. He has the talent and idea from his momma. She had the plan to make a giant house, purely out of wax!

Vincent is currently working on his momma's dream. His twin Bo is helping him. I can't visit it yet. Vincent says it's still not finished and he's a perfectionist.

Well that's not what he said. Vincent said everything should be perfect for me. So I have to wait until the house is perfect. I can't wait to be a witness of his life's work.

"Of whom?"

"No one particular. It was inspired by a hitchhiker Bo picked up last week though."

"Can I be there with you someday? When you make one?"

"As soon as it is safe I will gladly take you with me, love."

His voice calms me immensely and I lean my head back. A raw chuckle can be heard from Vincent.  

"Did you ever make a statue of me?"

"At least a hundred."

Vincent often tells me that I'm his muse. His favorite piece of art. I suppose that's how artists compliment someone.

"Is everyone doing okay? How is Bo?"

He usually talks a lot about his brother. Bo is very important to him.

Unfortunately I've never met Bo before. Vincent says he is a busy man since he's the only one in Ambrose who really has a job and all. Apparently Bo's gas station is the only one in a hundred miles radius.  People often visit the city and he has to help them all the time.

It's slowly getting dark. I know it's true because the crickets outside are louder than before. It must be nearing 10 pm.

I yawn as I feel my exhausted bones ache for rest.

"For someone who's not tired you do sound a bit sleepy."

"Perhaps I am a little bit tired."

I soon fall asleep, my head seated on his shoulder, his long hair being my pillow.

Vincent carries me to our room, he puts the crutches away and kisses the lids over my sightless orbs to sleep.

Vincent is the sun to my moon.

[sneezefiction]

found

Oikawa x Reader - Scenario

desc: Oikawa found a steadiness in the stars... and then in you too. alternatively, you’re Oikawa’s apartment neighbor & you two have gotten pretty close.

a/n: i’ve been thinking about stargazing and Oikawa lately. i’ve honestly always wondered how he adjusted to life in Argentina and if he ever got very close to anyone in his time there. here’s something fluffy along those lines <33

warnings: none

wc: 2.4k

---

The night sky has always had a gravitational effect on Oikawa.

Leaning up against the cold metal railing, head tilted back with tired eyes, he feels free to drop his composure and look up into the vast expanse of space.

Long days under bright arena lights are a constant in his life. He’s used to it by now and remains grateful to the fluorescents that have followed him throughout his blossoming career, but at 24 years old Oikawa has found himself drawing closer and closer to the bright specks in the sky.

The novelty of success had Oikawa on cloud nine. His hard work had paid off and his name was spreading like a wildfire, not to mention, he was finally making some good money…

But he was drifting.

That cloud had him riding a high... but it was also starting to sweep him off of his feet. And he desperately needed to remain planted, feet firmly pressed against the ground. He didn’t have Iwaizumi to knock him in the head anymore, so he knew he had to find something else steady.

That’s when Oikawa realized that those stars were the most grounding thing in his life.

And there wasn’t a better place to view them than from the unlit rooftop of his brick, Argentinian apartment building. It was an escape of sorts. One where he could easily slip on his coat, trek up the concrete staircase, and breathe deeply without any unnecessary attention. There was nothing more pacifying than taking in the skyline view and watching cars the size of ants pass below him.

To some, a starry sky is just a nice picture. A moment only briefly studied and then tucked away in ones memory. But to Oikawa? Stars are stablization. 

A taste of humility.

The open-ended, unravelable abyss reminds him that he is just one man. A single person resting under the glow of a trillion stars. Oikawa feels small and, according to the galaxies above, that’s exactly how he should feel in comparison.

But lately he’s found himself up on the rooftop for another reason.

Which brings him back to you.

The tap of your shoes and the blowing of the wind are the only noises to break the silence of the chilly autumn night.

Oikawa perks up as he picks up on your footsteps behind him, but acts like he doesn’t notice. He doesn’t want you to think he’s been checking over his shoulder for you for the past 10 minutes, impatiently waiting to see your face.

Only once your feet meet the edge of the railing does he shoot you a glance.

Oikawa has to keep himself from leaning into you right then and there. He has to fight the urge to try and charm you like he does with his fan-girls and the pointed cameras.

So he keeps his arms crossed atop the iron rail, his chin resting on top of them snugly. One leg is placed further back than the other to keep himself balanced, while still propped up against the metal comfortably. There was a serenity to his pose. He was always standing up so tall. Always so poised.

Yet here he was... Leaning sloppily, eyelids heavy and dark circles on show, letting his guard down in front of you. Again.

“Took you long enough.” Oikawa pouts into his jacket.

His voice is whiny, but there’s an affection to it.

You rub your hands along your upper arms in an attempt to create some friction. You could really use some warmth right now.

“Yeah, sorry, I couldn’t find my jacket.” You mumble back, inhaling deeply and blowing it out to watch the cold air turn your breath into a little, misty cloud.

He turns his head toward you, but doesn’t lift his chin off of his arms, blinking and quirking an eyebrow in confusion.

“You could’ve just sent me a text. I’ve got tons of sweatshirts at my apartment.”

Oikawa has perfected the art of mock-petulance, his voice is breathy and feigning hurt.

But without hesitation, he stands upright and shrugs off his dark-blue coat, swooping it over your shoulders like a blanket. It retained his heat well and transferred the warmth from his body to your own in only a few short seconds.

“I knocked on your door, but you were already up here!” You sigh, tugging the jacket a little closer to your face.

You shuffle your feet, inching your body closer to his as you overlapped your forearms on the frigid rail.

Oikawa takes note of your cozy form. You’re unbearably endearing with your head tilted and your body wrapped up in his coat like that. Your nose is tucked within the coat’s collar; it acts as a warm shield, guarding your face from the biting breeze. If it weren’t so dark out, he might’ve tried to snap a picture of you, but the mental image would just have to do.

Oikawa goes back to his original position on the rail, noticeably closer to you.

“You don’t always have to be so quick to get up here, y’know?” You remind him, your elbow and side pressing up against his own, attempting to catch some more of his body heat.

He smiles, mouth closed.

You’re always so thoughtful. Always steady. 

“Yeah, I know… but I wanted to see you.” He admits, breaking eye-contact to watch the cars below instead.

Oikawa’s words come out low and slow, but they’re coated in honesty, like thick, sweet honey. Something he hasn’t gifted anyone else with since he’d moved to Argentina.

“...I wanted to see you too.”

And with that response, you lean your head against his shoulder, closing your eyes.

It’s an awkward angle, but you couldn’t care less. You’d fallen into a habit of ‘shoulder leaning’ over the past few weeks and neither of you are complaining about it. Oikawa sneaks an arm around your back, tugging you into him.

The wisps of his hair tickle your forehead and tease at your ears, while the wind tangles your senses in his soft scent.

His cologne quickly reminds you of when you’d first met him. To be completely honest, you’ve felt drawn to him since the day he moved in to the apartment complex.

Those pretty, brown waves, his cheeky smirk, and the fragility that lingered just beneath his surface had you genuinely curious about it… you wanted to know him better. Most of your initial meetings were accidental run-ins and hallway chats - you just couldn’t seem to catch him at a regular time.

So you built up the courage to speak with him directly. 

It started with a simple knock. A life-altering knock on a door across the hallway and two apartments to the left. And before you could even introduce yourself, you were met with Oikawa’s tired but warm voice explaining that he was heading up to the rooftop and that he could use some company.

The rooftop where it all started.

It’s been well over a year since you’d become friends and only a month since the dating phase had begun, however, Oikawa knows that he’s finally found someone that he can hold onto.

Someone who needs him just as much as he needs them. Someone who knows who he is deep down and still wants to stick around. 

He’s found a bright light that contrasts beautifully against the dark sky.

And this time it isn’t a star or a flashing camera.

Oikawa breathes out a sigh of peace, pressing his cheek up against the top of your head.

“Whatcha thinking about.” You whisper, throwing him off his train of thought.

He hums into your hair.

“You.” Oikawa drawls sweetly, not missing a beat.

You should’ve known he would say that. He’s a witty one. The way you feel him smirk against your head makes it clear that he was prepared for that question.

But it’s true.

He’s really is thinking back to the day he first met you. He’s thinking about how nice it is to have your cold hand wrapped within his own right now. How badly he wants to make you smile and laugh. How much he wishes to touch your skin while pressing his lips against yours.

And that last option seems quite doable right about now.

Oikawa shifts, standing up slowly.

 It prompts you to lift your head up off of his shoulder, your hand still intertwined with his own. 

He stares at you with such adoration. There’s a subtle shimmer to his brown eyes, a spark that’s barely visible under the shading of the dark sky... but you know it’s there. It’s a look reserved for you and you only.

You can’t help but feel flush under his gaze.

There’s this forbidden, beautiful message within those umber-brown eyes. One that sets off a flame inside of you, burning and crackling deep within. Those brown pools catch you off-guard and vulnerable, trapping you in the gentlest of ways with a look that almost dares to say, “I think I love you.”

You turn your head, flustered, and look out across the city instead.

And it’s beautiful and vibrant. 

The bright hues of streetlights and restaurants color the sidewalks in vivid shades of reds, violets, and blues. A neon glow casts a lively image across the entire cityscape... and yet, it pales in comparison to the male in front of you. 

But you hold your head in place, still bashfully averting your eyes.

“S-stop looking at me like that, Tooru.” You stammer through a soft smile, your sweet expression denying the substance of your plea.

Oikawa doesn’t look away, and instead brings his hand to your cheek, caressing it. You almost flinch as his chilled fingers touch your skin, but you quickly tilt your head into his palm. It’s hopeless. Avoiding his eyes clearly wasn’t in the cards tonight.

“I can’t help it.” He replies smoothly, running a thumb across your jaw.

His cheeks are pink.

You can’t tell if it’s because of your close proximity or if it’s from the frigid air surrounding you two, but you like to think you’ve incited a little nervousness within him. After all, this relationship is still somewhat new to the both of you. 

But his prior relationship experience allows him to feel a warranted confidence around you. Oikawa takes the lead, stepping forth and slowly leaning toward your face. He scans your eyes, concern and eagerness apparent.

He’s silently asking if this is okay.

And after giving him a small nod, Tooru closes in on you, eyes softening. 

You meet him the rest of the way, taking his lips into a shiver-inducing kiss. Chills run up your arms, but are quickly followed by a wave of heat that fills up your chest and coats your entire body. 

You don’t really need that jacket anymore. 

Oikawa’s lips are cold, but soft and pleasant. They meld with your own in several gentle motions, getting a feel for you once more. You think he must have been taking notes from your last make out session, because he knows exactly how to move his head to accommodate for your comfort and how to make you jittery at the touch of his calloused fingers as they roam your neck, arms, and sides.

While Oikawa is busy reading you like an open book, you’re on your tiptoes in anticipation, wondering what his next move will be. 

One moment he has your bottom lip between his teeth, tugging and inciting soft whines from you, the next he’s gingerly cupping your cheeks as if you were the only thing that’s ever mattered to him. A concoction of deep pleasure and unguarded intimacy - as fragile as a butterfly’s wing. And these aforementioned butterfly moments inevitably bubble their way out in nervous excitement and shaky, skin-seeking hands.

His tongue surprises you as it licks your bottom lip for permission. The warmth is inviting, so you gladly comply and let him explore your mouth gently and curiously. He’s patient. More than generous with his time, making sure to appreciate and savor every last second of you. You taste like nothing he’s ever had. It’s addictive. Like maple-syrup or freshly cut strawberries, your sugary lips had him sipping on you for another kiss. And another. And another

As you run your fingers up his neck with a fluttering touch, he lets his hands wander down to your hips in the process. You breath hitches and you feel him smile against your lips as he tips you back slightly. As your legs become shakier, knees threatening to give out as the kiss intensifies, Oikawa only pulls you closer. 

Because you had a way of bringing him back to reality with the brush of your lips and the breath of your words. Those kisses are a gentle reminder that he doesn’t need to be on a court or draped in medals to be worthy. His career, his passions are important... but so is this.

And so those strong arms hold you up, their touch tender and protective. Like he’s guarding you. Cherishing you. Begging you not to pull away yet.

But all kisses must fade at some point. 

Only when his thumb is brushing against your jaw do you part. In an instant, you miss his warmth and the sweet minty taste on his lips. You both find yourself panting from the long-winded session, seeking oxygen and energy... though you wish it were possible to breathe him in instead.

And while you’re feeling cloudy and dazed, you note that there’s a clarity to his gaze. It’s a clearness you can’t quite discern, but you know it’s coming from a good place, because he’s already pulling you into a hug, tucking you into his chest, and peppering your face with little kisses.

It’s a love letter in the form of a kiss… or 20 if you count all the pecks being pressed against your forehead and cheeks. Without words, he’s thanking you. Praising you. Asking you to stick around for as long as you can bear. 

And, in a sense, you’ve discovered the real Oikawa Tooru.

The Oikawa who doesn’t have to hide behind his fame or his successes or his pretty face to receive your recognition. Because you see past all of that. You see him for who he is right now.

An achiever who needs to be reminded of his humanity. A man who craves touch and care just like any other. A lost soul searching for a space in the world and in your open arms.

You’ve helped him to find himself underneath all of the pressure and all of the lights.

You’ve shown him that there’s worth in just being himself. That you can keep each other grounded and stable, saving each other from themselves in more ways than one.

You’ve found him for who he is… and neither of you are planning on letting the other go.

---

tags: @cherryonigiri, @yams046, @miss-rin, @shou-kunn, @senkuwu-chan, @super-noya, @stcrryskies, @holaaaf, @sugacookiies, @vintgicals, @moonlightaangel, @kit-tea, theworldupthere, @sugasugawarau, @randomesk-yuku, @ideshine, @macaronnv, @anseoo, @aprettyfruit, @bbakougo, bloom-uwu, @spikertrash, @iguessimastannow

(comment, dm, or send an ask to be added to my general tag list - blogs in bold could not be tagged)

[pumpkinov]

Where the Dust Settles

You can read Chap. 1 here and Chap. 2 here

Portia Collins, the sole survivor of Vault 111 has lost more than most. With the Institute defeated, she sets her sights to the next big jobs - unification of the Commonwealth wastelands and the large warship docked at the Boston Airport. More work for the General of the Minutemen, who is finding herself increasingly alone as her companions move on with their lives. John Hancock, the Ghoul Mayor of Goodneighbour is struggling to find his footing in the new political climate of the Commonwealth, and is finding a surprisingly vocal supporter in his local Minuteman General.

Chapter 3. Do you wanna come over, and kill some time?

Portia meets with an adoring audience, Hancock gets high. They walk home together.

Portia’s headache was back, and this one was a ripper.

She briefly considered decapitation, and settled for a stimpak. Two and a half years in the wasteland, and this was still the grossest part.

Well, maybe not the grossest, but she still hated it. She poked the needle through the delicate skin of her elbow and decompressed the vial, feeling the weird cold sensation of something entering her bloodstream. She’d left Preston, Nick and Piper at the Dugout Inn and headed straight home. Not that she spent much time here anymore, but Home Plate was hers and she could relax here, at least a little.

She sat in her arm chair, waiting for the Stimpak to work. It didn’t take long, the headache was already less crushing than it had been before. There was a stack of paperwork upstairs on the desk that she needed to look over before the final meeting tomorrow. And oh Jesus Christ what was she going to do about fucking Hancock.

He was right, of course he was right. She just hated being put on the spot like that.

And there was no way she could skip on the socialization of the night - the General of the Minutemen summons you to walk the dangerous roads between your settlement and Diamond City, and doesn’t even bother to speak to you?

She sunk a little lower into her battered chair, allowing herself a moment to scrunch her face up. She could have a cry later, maybe, as a treat. But right now, there was work to be done. Portia put her shoes on, grabbed her coat and her scarf, flicked off the lights and stepped into the market of Diamond City. It was snowing again, lightly for now. It lay across the ground, shimmering under the string lights running off the roofs in the square. She breathed in the noodle smell wafting in the air, and for a moment she felt a little lighter.

She was greeted at the door of the Dugout Inn by Nick, who was smoking out the front.

“Hey there kid,” his yellow eyes burned bright against the darkness creeping in from the corners of the old park. “How’d it go today?”

Portia sighed, and dug around in her pockets for a cigarette, “It went pretty good.”

“Is that so?” the old synth looked over at her, she could hear the faintest of whirr’s as his eyes focused on her. “Heard John had something to say at the end. He dropped past my office earlier.”

“Oh. Yeah, he did.” Portia lit her cigarette and inhaled, staring up at the sky. The snow was starting to land in her hair. “He’s right.”

Nick nodded slowly. “He is. But folks around here, they like their town the way it is. It seems pretty unlikely anything will change.”

She chewed on her lip a little, rolling her cigarette between her fingers. “Yeah, I tend to agree with you.”

“Most smart folks do.” Nick agreed.

“You knew him when he was a kid, right?” Portia asked suddenly, “What’s the Mayor’s deal?”

“John?” the detective seemed to deliberate for a moment.

“Yeah, is he all bark and no bite?”

More whirring, as mechanisms hidden under the plastic pulled Nick’s mouth into a smile. “Oh no, he bites. But under all that bark and all that bite, he’s a bleeding heart.”

Portia rolled her eyes, and Nick laughed.

Inside was even busier than the Third Rail had been last night. It was hazy inside, steam rising off everyone’s clothes dampened by the falling snow. The coat rack near the door was overburdened, but Portia had no choice but to dump her coat and scarf on top of the pile, it was a million degrees with all these bodies and the fire going. People reached out to her as she passed, she fixed a smile on her face as she desperately looked for a familiar face. But no Preston, no Piper. She almost reached the bar before being cornered by a woman, a trader from The Murkwater Construction Site to the south. There was a Minuteman checkpoint nearby, and they had helped defend the settlement from a supermutant raid a few weeks earlier. She grabbed Portia’s arm, desperate to tell her how her men had defended the farms, how they had saved this woman’s home.

“That’s the Commonwealth Minuteman ideal, to be ready at a minute’s notice,” Portia gritted her teeth, subtly trying to pull her arm out of the woman’s grip but it was a vice. Then came the wash of shame and guilt - this woman just wanted to tell her how much she appreciated the work Portia and her group had accomplished. And all she, Portia, the fucking General wanted to do was get away. It took her fifteen minutes before she was finally released - after which another family wanted to pass on their thanks for the Minutemen’s work protecting Oberland Station. A man touched her shoulder; he wanted to tell her that his son had died defending the Minuteman checkpoint near the entrance to the Glowing Sea, and how proud he was that his son had died doing something so honorable.

By the time Portia’s hands collided with Vadim’s bar, she was emotionally wrent. Vadim placed a glass of whiskey down on the bar for her, stopped and considered for a moment, then left the bottle. Portia stared at it for a moment - tempting, really. But she made the responsible decision, and knocked back the glass instead. She turned to face the room, leaning her back against the bar. There was a flash of red in the corner, and her eyes chased it without really thinking. There was something so distinctive about the mayor. He wasn’t particularly tall, or muscular, but his presence filled a room. He moved with his shoulders - they were broad for his frame, emphasized by the ridiculous frock coat he wore everywhere. He swiveled around, almost if her gaze had summoned him. He looked over, and winked. A wicked smile spread across his face, and he turned back to say his goodbyes to his captive audience, two women with drinks in their hands and fire in their eyes; before making his way towards Portia.

She watched him approach, feeling the heat creep through her stomach as he made his way through the crowded bar. Interesting response, best ignored. There was no time for nonsense like this. She wrapped her hands around the whiskey bottle Vadim had left on the bar and moved away, spotting Piper near the door. Was she avoiding him? Maybe.

Another few hours of greeting people, of being seen, and Portia was finally free. Preston had appeared, and eventually shooed her out the door, bundled in her coat and scarf, hands still wrapped around her untouched whiskey bottle.

“You look like you need a sleep, it’s fine, I can handle this!”

“I need a fucking coma.” Portia replied to him after he’d closed the door to the inn. She leant her forehead against the wooden door for a moment, before turning around and almost screaming.

“Mayor, do I need to make you wear a bell?”

He grinned, “Are you trying to collar me now?”

He was sitting on the stone wall, a cigarette between his lips and a jet canister in his hands. The snow had stopped, but the air was bitingly cold. Portia briefly considered her options, before heaving herself up to sit next to him. She nestled the whiskey bottle between her thighs as he handed her the jet. She turned it over in her hands, glancing around. There was no one else around, and she raised it to her lips and took a quick breath in.

There was the sound of rushing blood in her ears, and everything fell away for a moment. All she could feel was the freezing cold of the stone under her ass, which was steadily going numb.

It only lasted a moment, bit by bit the rest of the world returned. She opened her eyes to the sound of Hancock laughing, almost a growl in his throat. “What?” She asked blearily, pushing the little plastic container back into his hands.

“I’ve never seen someone look like they needed a jet hit as badly as you did when you walked out.” He chuckled, inhaling his cigarette deeply.

Portia hummed a little, the afterglow of the jet slowly working it’s way out of her system. “I fucking miss weed, man.”

“Weed?”

“Cannabis, it was a plant, you dried and smoked it.”

“Oh right, yeah I’ve heard of that.”

Portia sighed. “I smoked a lot of weed back in the day. I can’t believe that fucking scorpions survived the end of the world, but no more pot.”

Hancock slid the jet canister back into his coat, blowing a stream of cigarette smoke into the night sky. “If you’re looking for other things, I have enough daytripper to help you avoid reality until next week.”

Portia chuckled, and shook her head, “Mayor, not all of us can function on jet fumes and mentat dust.”

He grinned at her, “Heh, yeah it’s a skill I’ve spent years honing. I didn’t pick our General as a habitual drug user.”

Portia smiled a little thinly, “You all seem to forget before I went into the deep freeze I had a whole life, you know?” Hancock slid his hand back into his coat, this time producing a cigarette, which Portia took. “Is your coat the nuclear wasteland version of Mary Poppin’s bag?”

“None of that made any sense.”

“It’s an old story, she flew around on an umbrella and put kids up the chimney. It’s, uh, unimportant.” She saw his expression and laughed a little. “I’ve seen you pull a fucking shotgun out of the coat, how do you keep so much stuff in it?”

His eyes flashed again, “You’ll have to get me out of it, General.” He leant over and lit her cigarette, before returning the lighter to the bottomless coat, and sliding off the wall. He held his hand out, steadying Portia as she dropped down to the ground with him. They moved down the street, their breath and cigarette smoke rising in front of them.

“I hadn’t planned on my punch at the entirety of Diamond City,” Hancock said casually. “I was just thinkin’ and I just … said it.”

“Makes sense.” Portia was focused on her boots shuffling through the snow, “I should have realised dragging you back here was gunna stir some feelings up.”

He laughed, low and deep. “Sure stirred something up.”

Portia felt her stomach spike again, and frowned at herself. She lifted her chin and aimed for a professional tone, trying to shake the intimacy out of the moment. “What are you hoping to achieve, Mayor?” She noticed they were walking close enough for their arms to brush against each other; she took a slight step away from him. If Hancock noticed her abrupt shift in energy, he didn’t react.

“Honestly, General? I don’t know. I don’t expect them to go back on what they voted for all those years ago. But I also can’t resist reminding them of who they’re fucking with.” He stared straight ahead, and Portia found herself staring at his face in profile.

High cheekbones, the faint outline of lips still left in the scars of exposed muscle on his face, his dark eyes shone in an otherworldly way. There was a twitch in his set jaw.

When he had greeted her in Goodneighbour two years ago, she’d found his face confronting, upsetting; a constant reminder that she was in a completely different world. Now his face was almost comforting.

They’d reached the front door of Home Plate now, Portia turning the whiskey bottle over in her hands. Hancock glanced at her, the wheels in his head turning.

“Is this … is this your house?”

“Yeah.” Portia was distracted, digging her keys out of her coat pocket and unlocking her front door. Then the penny dropped, as she pushed her front door open and she felt the warmth behind her shift forward slightly. She spun around barring the door with her arm. “No, no absolutely not!”

He was grinning across at her now, leaning an elbow against her door frame. “One drink?”

“In my house? No way.”

He pulled an expression of mock hurt, “Don’t you trust me?”

His body was inches from her, the warmth radiating through the layers of her clothes. “In general? Sure - in my home? Nope. You’ll never leave.” Shit

“Is that a threat or a promise, General?” He grinned slowly, before shifting his weight off the wall and standing up straight again. “Fine, one drink, in the freezing night air?”

Portia stared at him for a moment, he stared back. He was always fucking smiling. Sometimes she couldn’t tell if he was flirting with her, or mocking her. He was still close to her, she could smell him. Smoke, and something heavier. Patchouli, maybe? Or something close to it. She rolled her eyes, and let her arm drop.

“I am going to regret this, aren’t I?”

He followed her through her doorway, reaching his arm out to close her front door behind them. “General, I am nothing but a gentleman.”

She stared over her shoulder at him, “If I catch you in my underwear drawer, I’ll break your arm.”

His laugh drifted out the door, before it snapped closed.

[onecanonlife]

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 7,618

Chapter Warnings: swearing, referenced past suic.ide, description of past injury, scars, discussion of c!Wilbur’s overall terrible mental health

Chapter Summary: In which Phil and Wilbur finally sit down and have a talk. They both have things to say that the other needs to hear.

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Eighteen: quiet now

They do come up with a plan. A simple one, as far as plans go, but that means less moving parts, less things to go wrong. Sometimes a simpler plan is better. And considering the effort it takes to get them all there, to get them all on the same page, he’ll accept it. But night has fallen by the time they figure it all out,

(and by that time his throat is hoarse and his hands are shaking so he shoves them into his pockets and Tommy keeps shooting him looks and Phil is doing the same and Techno is kind of hovering a bit but he ignores them because he’s fine and he keeps his shoulders straight his shoulders straight set and straight so that no one looks at him and sees his exhaustion the way he’s crumbling and he tells himself that he’s not and that he’s alright that this is nothing but he’s not sure he believes himself anymore and that in itself is terrifying because if he’s not alright then he has to confront the dark confront what he does not want to confront so he tells himself he’s alright but the walls are cracking they’re cracking)

so they’ll set it all in motion in the morning. For now, they retire to bed. Almost all of them; Eret says she’ll keep watch by the gates. Once, he wouldn’t have trusted her word. He’s not sure that he does, even now. But he doesn’t object, and neither does anyone else, so.

It’s night. He should sleep. He is even aware that he needs to sleep, that he’s been dealing with a pounding headache ever since just after the last time he let Schlatt materialize, that every so often his vision swims for no apparent reason. He needs to sleep, because he’s no use to anyone like this, not if he can’t wield a weapon, whether physical or verbal, and he used all the rest of his energy on getting through the rest of the meetings. The collaboration. The planning. The day, plain and simple.

He knows when he’s running on fumes.

Eret gave him a room. She gave everyone a room. Because she has a bloody enormous castle, with rooms to spare. So he’s lying in an unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling, watching the moonlight slowly creep in as the clouds outside finally clear, and he can’t sleep. Exhaustion grips him with a thousand clinging hands, and he can’t sleep. He knows exactly where everyone is, knows that Tommy and Tubbo are sharing the room next to him, that Techno and Phil are on this same hall, and he even made sure to locate Fundy despite—everything.

Everyone is safe, in this moment, at least. But he can’t sleep, can’t give his body the rest it’s demanding of him. His mind is contorting in on itself, itching, buzzing, like a swarm of bees that can’t find the home hive. And his thoughts, as have been their wont lately, slip away before he can examine them properly.

(or perhaps he’s letting them go, has been letting them go all along, because he does not want to look at them, does not want to understand, because he wants to achieve that nebulous concept of being better but if he looks at himself too closely then he will have to acknowledge that being better doesn’t only have the meaning he’s assigned to the phrase, doesn’t just mean being better to others but also to)

He can’t sleep. So he gets up. Steadies himself against the bed’s banister until the world stops spinning. And then goes out into the hall. The stone is lit with flickering torches, and the soft crackling of the fire is the only sound. He slips out quietly, footsteps light on the carpet, and just walks. To the end of the hallway, glancing back just once, and—

Schlatt is at the other end. Staring at him. He stares back.

And then the ghost shakes his head and vanishes. The glimmer of blue is still there, still present as a shimmer if he doesn’t look at the spot directly, but the message is clear. Schlatt doesn’t want to talk.

He doesn’t particularly want to talk, either. Not after the mess that today has been. He regrets laying out all of his cards in front of Schlatt in the way that he did. The fact that Schlatt now knows how to make himself solid only adds to that. He’s not fond of the sensation, of his strength leaving him in a rush, pulled away from him without his consent.

(and his heart constricting in his chest)

The ground tilts a bit. He places his hands against the wall, and the dizziness passes. He keeps going. Keeps stalking through the halls.

He’s done this before. He felt like the castle’s passages were haunted, then, a few days ago. He still feels the same. Especially now, at night, when the whole castle is still. When he might as well be the only person alive.

(if he is that)

Except then, he rounds a corner and nearly runs over Ranboo. Or rather, doesn’t run him over, exactly, because Ranboo is exceedingly tall, and he somehow seems even taller now. But it’s him, his skin divided in black and white, wearing that suit he always seems to have on. Wilbur remembers to avert his eyes before meeting his gaze, but not before catching the fact that Ranboo’s are glowing purple. Which is different from usual. Definitely different from usual.

“Wasn’t expecting anyone else to be up,” he says, backing up a step. He fixes his gaze past Ranboo’s shoulder and tries to observe him surreptitiously.

Ranboo is holding a block of dirt. Grass intact. Interesting.

And then, Ranboo chirps at him. An enderman sort of warble, distorted and yet, somehow, gentle.

“Um,” he says. “Are you—is this the sleepwalking thing again?”

Immediately afterward, he realizes the stupidity of asking a sleepwalking person whether or not they’re sleepwalking. But the eyes are new, for sure; in the Egg’s chamber, when he was sleepwalking before, his eyes were just like they’d been previously, one red and one green, just glazed over.

His eyes now aren’t glazed at all, are bright and alert. But purple.

Ranboo vwoops.

“Alright, you know what, good for you,” he says. “I’m just going to keep walking. Maybe you should get some rest later or something.”

It’s not any of his concern what Ranboo’s doing. As long as he’s staying in the castle, he can sleepwalk and be an enderman to his heart’s content. It’s none of his business, and if he really feels the need, he’ll go get Phil. Since Phil seems to be halfway to adopting him in any case. Let Phil deal with it.

So he moves to walk around Ranboo. Except Ranboo mirrors him, and suddenly, the grass block is being shoved against his chest. Lightly, but enough to stop him in his tracks.

“Um,” he says again. Not up to his usual standards of eloquence, but Ranboo likely won’t remember this later if he actually is sleepwalking, so it’s fine. “You want me to take it? Is that it?”

Ranboo vwoops, still holding the block out at him, so he reaches for it, curling his fingers into the dirt. Ranboo releases the block as soon as he does, and the dirt immediately starts to come loose, to lose its shape, and a good bit of the grass starts to fall off. But Ranboo nods in satisfaction, letting out another warble, so he keeps hold of it as best he can. At least until Ranboo has passed by him, evidently content with whatever he thinks he’s accomplished. Wilbur turns to stare at his retreating back until he’s vanished around the corner.

And then he looks down at his hands. At the block, which barely resembles a block anymore. Mostly just a lump of dirt.

“Right,” he mutters, letting it slide through his fingers. Some of it clings to his skin, and he wrinkles his nose, brushing his hands against his coat.

He’s not sure what that was. But alright.

He finds his way out into the open air, eventually, climbing up and up until he gets to the roof of the castle. The sky above is lit with stars, and if he tilts his head and closes his eyes, he can hear them. Humming, always humming. Or perhaps he’s imagining it, his brain filling in a sound he can’t truly hear but that he knows is present. He’s not sure it makes a difference either way. It’s still a comfort. A small one, but a comfort nonetheless.

He’s considering whether to try to sleep up here instead when he sees that Phil is here too. A little off to the side, a dark silhouette staring out over the SMP, sitting on a stone bench. Why Eret put a bench on the roof, he has no idea; or perhaps Phil made it himself. He wouldn’t be surprised.

He should probably leave him be. And yet, he doesn’t want to go back inside, and—

Phil really ought to be resting too.

So he crosses the rooftop, slowly, almost reluctantly as he picks his way across the stone. He hesitates before sitting next to Phil on the bench, leaving a bit of space between them. This close, he can see the bags under Phil’s eyes better than ever, as well as the way his cloak twitches as the wings underneath move.

“Any particular reason why you’re up?” he asks. Phil doesn’t act surprised at his appearance; he knew he was there, then. Heard his approach, most likely, or perhaps just sensed his presence. Hundreds of years have made Phil a difficult man to catch off guard.

(though you did it once, in a different way, in that room, you caught him off guard and broke him in the catching)

Phil snorts. “Nightmare,” he says, clipped, though Wilbur is somewhat surprised to have gotten even that admission out of him. “I should be asking the same of you. You need to get some fucking sleep, Wilbur.”

“I’m well aware,” he says. “I’ve been trying. Thought a walk might clear my head.” He hesitates, not sure that he should push any further, not sure that he wants to, that Phil would welcome it. But then, he’s never been one to let such a small detail as whether his prying is welcome stop him. “Can I ask what about?” he asks, and is satisfied with that. If Phil wants him to fuck off, then he’ll tell him so.

But Phil is silent for a moment.

“You, usually,” he says.

“Oh,” Wilbur replies.

He didn’t expect that. But he feels like he should have.

Phil shifts, then, his clothing rustling as he turns to half face him.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” he says. “It’s not your fault. You get as old as I am and you pick up a few recurring nightmares. Persistent little fucks, but it’s not anything to be worried about.”

But this one is bad enough to cost you sleep on the eve of battle, and I know you know better than to let that happen, so it must be bad, he doesn’t say. But this one is about me, he doesn’t say. But there is still an uncomfortable tightness in his chest, one that doesn’t let up no matter how deeply he breathes. So he doesn’t look at Phil, but he says, “Tell me about it?” and immediately curses the weakness of his voice. He almost sounds scared, which is not what he was aiming for. Inviting, maybe. He wants to know.

(he doesn’t, actually, but he feels like he should, so it’s the same thing in the end)

Phil sighs.

“We’re on a cliff, you and I,” he says, sounding tired. “There’s an ocean below us, far down. Neither of us speak. You throw a sword down at my feet, and I—I do it. Just like I did. And then, you smile at me and fall backward. Off the cliff.” He looks down at his hands, flexing his fingers. “I jump after you. And then I remember that I can’t fly.”

Wilbur swallows.

(he has no trouble conflating himself with a nightmare, no trouble at all, but it becomes more difficult when the nightmare is not him but rather losing him and he should have expected as much from Phil because Phil for all his long years has never been good at letting go at giving up on something that cannot be saved but he still doesn’t know what to do with this what to say)

“I thought falling from a cliff was a Theseus thing,” he manages.

Phil chuckles dryly. “Techno does like his myths,” he says, “but life’s not so cut and dry as those are. Not everything has a perfect parallel. We’re not storybook characters.”

It’s not a pointed comment. But his mind still cringes away from the words.

“But stories come from somewhere,” he says softly. It’s not a plea, because he doesn’t have anything to plead, but if that’s so, then he doesn’t know why his voice is lined with desperation, all of a sudden, why his heart is thumping against his ribcage. “Even in real life, we all have roles to play.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing, Wil?” Phil asks. “Playing a role?”

His breath catches, snags in his lungs, like his chest is full of thorns.

(you do not like to be seen do not like to be perceived not like this not in a way that lays out the heart of you your core beliefs those are for you and you alone and you guard them so no one else knows and they receive only what you choose to present and so you do not like this at all do not like to be known beyond what you have explicitly chosen to share)

(you have always been a showman)

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says, but it’s stiff, too stiff, and Phil is too perceptive a man to be fooled by it.

“I’ve noticed what you’re doing,” Phil says. “You’re running yourself ragged trying to pull everyone together. To direct them. And I know you’re a leader, Wil, I really do, and you’re damn good at it, too, but you can’t possibly believe that wearing yourself out like this is healthy.”

He shuts his eyes. “It’s not like that,” he says. “I’m just doing what needs to be done.”

“It needs to be done. But not necessarily by you, mate. A lot of the people here are more than capable of taking on some of  the responsibility. Your brothers included. Also, you didn’t answer my question.”

“I didn’t hear you ask one,” he snaps, sudden irritation welling up. “It’s not a matter of health, Phil! It’s a matter of what’s important, and what’s important right now is dealing with all of this bullshit. That has to come first.”

Phil sits up straighter. His hands grip his knees, and his eyebrows draw together.

“You come first,” Phil says. “You always come first. Your health is important, and you—you can’t take care of anyone else before you take care of yourself. Wil, how long have you—”

He cuts off, but Wilbur knows what he was about to ask. How long have you thought like this? Or something like that, anyway. This is another thing that he should have expected from Phil, this persistent concern for him. It’s unnecessary, since he

(decided long ago that his health could fall on his list of priorities so long as he was effective, so long as he was getting things done, and he did get things done, in his country, in his exile, he got things done and that was what mattered because he himself has always been so much less important than the things he could create and the things he could do for others)

has matters well in hand, but he doubts Phil would understand if he tried to explain it.

(easier to tell himself that than to admit that he can’t explain it at all, that no explanation he could give would hold up to a moment’s scrutiny, that Phil will see right through it to the real underlying cause, and Phil has already perceived far too much)

“Right, health is important,” he says, placating. “I didn’t mean to imply that it wasn’t. Though, honestly, you’re one to talk. Did you think I didn’t see the state your wings are in? When’s the last time you bothered to preen them?”

It’s a low blow, and he regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. Phil flinches, his face setting in a harder expression. More closed off, and he really should have known better, shouldn’t he? Should’ve known better than to bring it up like that, because Phil’s wings used to be his pride and joy, and now they’re ruined and it’s his fault to boot, and he can admit that he was looking for a sore spot to hit, but that wound is far worse than a sore spot.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry.” He looks away, unable to meet Phil’s eyes, and finds himself looking up again. To the stars.

“It’s alright.” Phil laughs humorlessly. “I can’t say that you’re wrong.” He sighs, posture relaxing slightly. “I caught that, by the way. I know when you’re trying to distract me.” He tilts his head upward, staring at the stars just like Wilbur is, his hat sliding further back on his head. “I’m not trying to lecture you. I just want to understand. Why can’t you let yourself rest, Wil?”

That is a far more complicated question than he knows. That is a question that has its roots in months long past, in a drug van and an idea and a revolution and a nation, in his drive to get recognition and his determination that his country would succeed,

(because if it was not a success then it would be a failure and he too would be a failure)

in sleepless nights spent screaming into his pillow and days pasting on a smile and a confident stride. And then, in relinquishing his power when the people called for it, when he lost, conceding gracefully even as his stomach dropped into his boots, and getting an arrow in his back for his troubles, he and his brother chased like dogs from the home they built. And then, in the ravine, every shadow a threat, every person out to get him, every whisper a lie, every moment settling the despair more deeply into his bones.

But perhaps Phil knows that. Or some of it at least. He doesn’t know how much Phil has guessed. But Phil knows enough to know that the him that he encountered in that room was a far cry from the him that he portrayed in his letters, before he stopped sending them at all, before he could no longer bring himself to pick up the pen, before the thought of lying to his father again left him feeling physically ill, and the idea of telling him the truth was worse.

Phil knows enough to know that something went wrong.

Perhaps a bit of honesty wouldn’t hurt. Perhaps trying to get him to understand wouldn’t hurt. At least, not more than it already does, no more than he already has.

“It’s because I know what I’m like, Phil,” he says softly. “I know what I’m like.”

The stars twinkle at him.

“Okay,” Phil says. Patient. “What does that mean?”

He considers it. Considers everything.

“You know the legacy I left on this server, right?” he says. “You know what I left behind when I died.”

Phil turns his head, looks at him. His expression is slightly pained.

“I sort of destroyed the legacy you left,” he says, and it takes him a second to realize what he’s talking about.

“Not that L’Manberg,” he says. “That L’Manberg wasn’t mine. I suppose it was Tubbo’s more than anything, but it’s hard to say, I think. I can’t really speak on it. Ghostbur—saw things differently than how I would have.” He stops for Phil’s reaction to that, but aside from a slight narrowing of his eyes, there is nothing. “I mean the original. L’Manberg. My L’Manberg.”

Phil sucks in a sharp breath at his choice of words.

“No, Wil,” he says. “No, I didn’t really get to see it.”

“That’s the point,” he says. He closes his eyes, searching for the right words. The stars are pinprick lights dancing on his eyelids. “I destroyed it. I destroyed it all, Phil. I waffled back and forth a lot, for weeks, deciding whether I was going to do it or not. And then I did. I pushed that button, Phil. I made the decision. I destroyed it. I destroyed people’s homes. I betrayed all of my friends. And the thing about that is, even if I regret hurting them, now, I still don’t regret the action itself. I don’t regret destroying it, Phil. It needed to go.” I needed to go.

“Why is that, Wil?” Phil asks quietly.

“It wasn’t good anymore,” he answers easily. This, at least, he knows. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t mine anymore, either, but mainly it was that it wasn’t good. It became—it became corrupt. Bad. And it was never going to be good again, so it had to stop. It had to end. It all had to end. But that’s not my point right now. My point is that that was my legacy, right? L’Manberg? And I destroyed that, but what’s most important is the pain I caused. That was my legacy. That pain. That was what I left behind me. And even before that, even before everything, when I started it in the first place, I brought war to the server, Phil. Suffering, conflict. And the war was a game at first. We were all friends at the start. But then I decided that it wasn’t a game. I declared independence, and I meant it. So in the end, all of the problems on this server can be traced back to me. Something I did, or something I said.” He leans his head forward again, gazing out at the horizon rather than the night sky. “It all comes back to me. I’ve never been good for this server.”

He pauses, waiting for Phil’s reply. None comes, and he glances over; Phil is staring at him, face white as a sheet.

“I haven’t answered your question yet,” he says. “But you need to—you need to understand all of that so you understand why I feel—” He breaks off. His tongue feels clumsy, and his mind suddenly blanks. He’s not even sure that any of what he’s just said makes sense, and if it doesn’t make sense, then he can’t continue, because if he’s really going to do this, really going to put this all out there for Phil to hear, then he needs it to make sense, needs to be sure that he actually understands.

“Why you feel what?” Phil asks. Still quiet.

He takes in a breath. Tries to gather his thoughts. The exhaustion isn’t helping. It’s like wading through mud.

“I know what I’m like,” he repeats. It makes a good springboard. “So I know that I sure as hell don’t deserve to be back here, even if it had been what I wanted. But I am, so I need to do something that’s worth that. I need to pull myself together and get us all out of this. For Tommy’s sake, if for no one else, and for Tubbo, and—and Fundy, and everyone who doesn’t deserve to be pulled into this mess. Another mess. If I have the ability to help, then I have a responsibility to do that. I can’t just—push it off to someone else, Phil. That’s not how it works.”

“Why not?” Phil asks.

“Because then I’m not worth it, then, am I?” he erupts. Why isn’t Phil getting this? “Phil, we’re all measured by the things we create. By the things we’re able to do, our accomplishments. If I can’t do anything that’s worth something, then what the fuck am I here for? Because it’s not because I asked, Phil. I got what I deserved in the end, and that was supposed to be all. I wanted it to be all, Phil, I wanted—”

He cuts off, horror mounting in him. This was a mistake. He never should have said anything at all, never should have started in on this. He should have dodged the questions, the probing comments, until Phil finally got tired and left it alone.

He should have gone back inside.

But Phil still hasn’t spoken, so he presses on, trying to wrap it up in a way that’s understandable.

“In the end, it all comes down to the fact that I have experience with this kind of stuff,” he says. “Someone needs to step up, and I can. So I need to. That’s all it is.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “I probably should’ve just skipped to that part.”

“No, I’m glad you didn’t,” Phil says, and there’s a tremor in his voice that he can’t place the reason for. “I’m glad you—I’m glad you told me this. But—Wil, okay, first off, just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should, and it doesn’t mean you have to.”

“I knew you wouldn’t understand it,” he mutters. He really ought to go back inside. But the night air is so fresh and clear, smelling of humidity and petrichor, and the thought of returning to that empty, dark room only to stare at the ceiling until morning makes something in him shrivel up and die inside. If he’s not going to be able to sleep, then he’d rather be awake out here than in there.

“Wil,” Phil says, insistent, and suddenly, Phil’s hands are on his shoulders, turning him toward him with a light but firm touch. He blinks. “Do you not take care of yourself because you think you don’t deserve it?” Something in Phil’s voice folds like wet paper, just as fragile, just as flimsy.

He opens his mouth to respond, and no words come.

(there is is, the crux of the matter, the core of it all, because he is a person built of pretty words and self-loathing, and long before he directed any anger at the world around him, he pointed it inward, lashed at himself until only scars remained, and he called that just, called that right)

He’s not sure how Phil jumped to that conclusion from all of that. But—he’s trying to deny it, trying to refute the point, but the words just won’t form.

“Oh, Wilbur,” Phil says, sounding a bit wrecked, and then, the hands on his shoulders move to his arms, gently pulling him forward and into Phil’s embrace. Phil’s arms circle him lightly, his hands rubbing patterns into his back, and then, his wings rise from under his cloak, swooping forward and closing around him in a motion that is all-too familiar from his childhood, in a motion indicating that even now, Phil is trying to comfort him, trying to protect him with all that he is. It’s a hug that means warmth and safety and love, and Wilbur begins to tremble, because—

He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t. He doesn’t understand what he did to deserve it.

“You don’t need to do anything to be worthy of love,” Phil murmurs. “You don’t need to do anything to deserve to take care of yourself. And—you’re wrong about your legacy. It’s not just pain and suffering. You’ve done so many good things for so many people, and they remember that, even if you can’t. I see it every day. You were missed, Wil. So fucking missed, by so many more people than just me.”

And that can’t be true. That can’t possibly be true, because he remembers his ending certainty, his declaration that everyone would thank Phil for killing him, that everyone wanted him to do it, and he was so sure of himself, then, because he was the traitor, he was the villain, and villains get what they deserve. And perhaps he wasn’t entirely right, not in Tommy’s case, at any rate, because Tommy wanted him back, at least, but everyone else should have wanted him dead.

But no one has. No one has thus far, at least. No one has tried to do anything to him aside from a few pointed comments. No one has tried to lock him up or kill him. No one has tried, even when they should, they definitely should, because he was hated by the end—wasn’t he?

(no. except for by one, and you have never judged yourself fairly)

So, what does that mean, then? What does it mean that he understands far less than he thought he did? What does it mean that he is struggling for control, falling back into old patterns because it’s all he knows, struggling and falling and failing? He thought he knew, thought he understood well how it all ties together, how to measure his own worth by what he can do, but here is Phil saying that that’s not right at all, and what is he supposed to do with that?

He has vowed to be better. Has been trying to be better. Has he been getting that wrong, too?

Or perhaps he isn’t wrong. Perhaps Phil is. He would like to believe that Phil is. It would be so much easier if Phil is. But here, now, held with arms and wings both, the contact chasing all of the day’s chill away, he’s not sure that he can arrive at that conclusion. Not sure he can let himself deny it, deny this.

But if he is wrong about this, he is wrong about so much, and that—that is terrifying.

“I’ve been trying to be better. I’ve been trying so hard,” he gasps out. “Phil—Phil, I don’t think I know what I’m doing. I don’t think I know how.”

“That’s okay,” Phil says. “That’s okay, you don’t have to. You just have to try. That’s all anyone wants. And it’s a process, not a one-and-done thing. It’s okay to not know.” Phil pauses. One hand moves from his back and goes up to card through his hair. Wilbur lets out a sigh. “But part of that is being better toward yourself. You deserve that just by virtue of existing. You don’t have to do anything or make anything. You deserve better things.”

(his own voice: you deserve good things and you can have them. but that was to Tommy, for Tommy, and it surely can’t apply to him, surely, because he is different, is not good like Tommy is, because he may be trying not to be the villain anymore but he was one once and he is not good and even before then he was not good enough so surely he cannot turn that around on himself surely he cannot)

“I don’t know if I can believe that,” he admits.

“That’s alright, too,” Phil says. “We can work on it, okay? We’ll all work on it together. Just, remember that you do deserve better things. No matter what your brain is telling you. Your brain is fucking wrong, okay? In this, it’s so fucking wrong. You deserve to be—to be fucking kind to yourself.” He pauses for a moment, and when he continues, his voice is full of trepidation. “Wil, you are—I mean, you do—you do want to—”

He seems to be struggling to phrase it, but Wilbur knows exactly what he’s asking.

“I don’t know about want,” he says. He’s been honest thus far; may as well continue. “I—I didn’t tell you about the time with the Egg, before you got here. It got in my head good. Really good. And it offered me—rest. I tried to give in to it. If other people weren’t there, I would have.”

Phil’s grip on him tightens.

“But I’ve decided I’m staying,” he continues. “I’ve decided. For the sake of—I mean, some of you people seem to care about me, for some godforsaken reason. And I don’t want to hurt you. So I’m staying here. Alive. I’m going to keep trying.”

“Okay,” Phil whispers. “Okay, that’s a good start.”

If that is a start, then what is the end goal? But he’s too worn out to ask. Exhausted in so many more ways than one.

But his mind is quieter. No longer buzzing. Like a storm has finally passed over, leaving destruction in its wake, but also calm.

He finally brings his arms up and embraces Phil in turn, leaning his weight against his chest. The moment he lets himself, all his muscles go limp, his body finally succumbing to the break he so sorely needs.

“You’re a sappy old man, do you know that?” he mumbles.

“I’m your father,” Phil says. “Comes with the territory.”

He hums, pushing his face against Phil’s robes. He’s clutching at his back, but the cloak has shifted, now that Phil’s moved his wings to wrap around him, so if he inches his hands up a bit, they’ll hit the wings’ base. So he does, slowly, cautiously, and then just lets his hands rest there, against the feathers. Phil stiffens.

“Let me preen them,” he says.

Phil takes a second to answer.

“Didn’t we just have a conversation about not taking on as much responsibility?” he says, and just as Phil can pick out when he’s trying to dodge a topic, he can tell right away that the question is an avoidance.

“This is completely different,” he says. “If you don’t want me to, I won’t. But—” He moves back so he can stare Phil in the face, taking a moment to chew on his next words. “I want to. Please.”

He’s not sure why this is suddenly so important to him. It’s probably something about how the state of these wings is his fault in the first place, about how Phil wrecked them in an effort to protect him, about how he turned around and begged him to kill him a moment later, with no regard for what Phil had just sacrificed. It’s probably something about how Phil is talking self-acceptance at him and yet obviously has not been taking care of himself, not in this aspect, at least, and he hates it, hates to see this disregard for things that he once held so dear, hates to see it and know that the blame lies with him. It’s probably something about how being held like this takes him back to when he was younger, and he always loved running his hands through his father’s feathers when he was still a child, straightening them and cleaning them and taking pride in the fact that he was helping, that he was a part of something, part of a family at last after so long on his own.

It’s probably all of that at once.

Something in Phil seems to deflate. His shoulders slump, which is not exactly the reaction Wilbur was hoping for.

And then—

“Alright,” Phil whispers. He leans back from the hug, stretching out his wings so that Wilbur can get a good look at them. So he does look, and he struggles to keep his face neutral; he’d hoped, somehow, that his glimpse of them in the Egg’s chamber, ragged and bleeding from the thorns, was exaggerated in his memory, that they’re not actually in as terrible a way as he remembers. But as Phil allows him to stare, his heart sinks.

Even in the dim light of the stars, he can see that the wings are a mess. And his stomach rolls as his eyes land on bare, scarred patches of skin, on exposed bone. A few places are still bandaged from the damage the Egg did, though potions have done much in the way of healing those particular wounds.

And only those, it seems.

(the Angel of Death will fly no more)

But there are still plenty of feathers, feathers that Phil obviously hasn’t been looking after, feathers that fall every which way, sticking out at odd angles. There are a few spots that Phil has evidently straightened himself, but not many. Some appear to be overlapping strangely, poking into the skin in a way that cannot be comfortable.

He looks back to Phil’s face. Phil’s expression is odd, some combination of resignation and defiance, as if halfway daring him to comment.

So Wilbur doesn’t. Just scoots forward slightly and runs his hand across some of the offered feathers.

And then gets to work.

Even in his tired state, the motions are familiar, far too familiar to mess up. Straighten the feathers, pick out dirt and other detritus that’s been caught in and beneath them. His hands are more hesitant than they ever have been, struggling with what to do as they near the more obviously injured places, but he does know how to do this. He has done it so many times before.

(and if Phil is allowing him this now, when he obviously has not allowed anyone near his wings in a long time, even Techno, even the son whose side he remained by, then perhaps it is a good sign, and perhaps he can take it as a sign of hope, as a sign that things can be better are getting better no matter the hurts that have yet to heal)

“Do they hurt?” he can’t help but ask, voice low.

Phil hesitates a beat too long. “Not usually,” he says, and Wilbur knows it for a lie.

There’s a lot of feathers loose. A lot of feathers coming out at a mere touch. And Wilbur knows how this works, knows that if the feather is already falling out then it needs to be removed, but it still concerns him, just how many there are, just how many now litter the ground, stirring in the wind.

It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask if it hurts right now. But another glance at Phil’s face forestalls him. His eyes have drifted shut, the lines around his eyes and on his forehead smoothing out, and the tension has bled from his frame.

(a memory: you have lived in this house scarce weeks and you barely trust these two at all but this boy who will become your brother has sat you down with the man who will become your father and is telling you, determinedly, seriously, resolutely, that if you’re going to stick around then you need to know how to do this, and Philza is laughing at the both of you and you are nervous, because you have never had a home before and you want to keep this one, but Technoblade shows you how to card through the feathers, and Phil chirps at you every now and then, soft and encouraging, and it feels a bit like a home, you think, if you’ll let yourself have it)

For a moment, he lets his hand hover over bone. It’s so very wrong, so very disturbing. Bones should not be extended out of flesh in the way that these are. His stomach flips again.

“This is my fault,” he murmurs. The words slip out.

“It was my choice,” Phil says, opening his eyes. “I’d do it again.” It’s a steady declaration this time, no indication of a lie.

(and he almost wishes that there were, because he has never known what to do with unwavering protection, protection that he does not deserve—but then, Phil has told him that his sense of what he deserves might not be right at all, and he doesn’t know what to do with that either)

(because the protection offered is without a doubt resolute, unquestioning, unconditional, and in that moment, as the explosions went off and Phil shielded him with no hesitation even though he could not have known that a life lost to them would have been his last because he did not tell him did not tell him anything at all)

(you try not to remember that Phil must have waited for you to respawn and try not to imagine the look on his face when your body remained and somebody had to tell him had to tell him that this is a three-life server and the life he took was the last the last the last the finale the ending an ending he surely did not intend to grant and you cannot let yourself imagine the moment he found out you cannot)

He doesn’t have an answer to that. None that Phil would accept, at any rate. So he doesn’t answer at all, just keeps dragging his fingers through his father’s feathers, neatening them, cleaning them where he can, and there’s only so much he’s going to be able to to like this, here and now, but it’s a start. Judging by the way Phil’s eyes are drooping again, he feels more comfortable than before. And really, that was the goal, wasn’t it? To do something? Anything?

(anything to ease the weight to lift the burden and Phil has a point, perhaps, about responsibility and taking on too much but this is not a responsibility is not work this is taking care of family and if Phil is allowing you this then perhaps you ought to consider accepting help in return perhaps letting your loved ones in would not be such a bad idea perhaps you can put a little more of yourself on display and trust them to smooth out the rough edges perhaps perhaps)

Eventually, he runs out of feathers to preen, to fix. There is nothing he can do about the scars, the bones, but he has done what he can, and perhaps that means something, even if not everything.

“We should go back inside,” Phil murmurs. His words slur slightly; he’s listing to the side a bit, obviously just on the edge of sleep. It makes Wilbur glad to know that some things don’t change.

“Probably,” he says. “I’d like to stay out for a few minutes longer. The stars look nice tonight.”

Phil yawns, and halfway through, the noise transforms into a warbling chirp.

“I s’ppose we can do that,” he agrees, and in the next instant, Phil is wrapping his wings around him again, pulling him closer, and he doesn’t fight it. He lets himself lean into Phil’s side, warm and secure. Overhead, the stars spin. And hum. They always hum, even if he can’t quite hear the notes, and for the moment, he feels right with his place in the universe.

He falls asleep like that, finally. His dreams are full of music and feathers and distant birdsong.

--------------------

He wakes up to the clanging of a bell.

“Oh, fuck,” Phil is saying, and the weight of his wings disappears in a split second. Wilbur almost topples over as Phil lurches to his feet, catching himself just in time, bracing himself against the bench and squinting against the morning sun. It is morning; that’s probably the best night’s sleep he’s gotten in the past few days, the beginning insomnia notwithstanding. His weariness is not quite gone, but it’s far less prevalent than it has been.

It takes a second for his eyes to adjust to the light. The first thing he sees are the red vines crawling over the sides of the castle, inching toward the roof.

“Shit, fuck,” Phil is still saying, “the enchantments are gone, we need to move—”

The bell clangs twice, then thrice more, and then falls silent. Eret said they had a bell, didn’t they? That they would ring it if something happened, to wake everyone up?

“Fuck,” Phil says, suddenly hushed. “Wil.”

He rises, coming to stand by Phil’s side, peering out toward the gates, the wall, the place where the enchanted boundaries are supposed to be set. The castle itself doesn’t yet seem to be overrun, but the walls are covered in the foliage, and if he watches them carefully, he can see them growing in real time, unfurling toward them like bloody banners.

Dream stands just inside the gates. Behind him, there are others: Bad, Ant, Ponk, Punz, the four they knew to expect for sure, along with a woman he doesn’t recognize, white flowers strewn in her hair and wrapped around her arms. In front of them, Eret stands with their sword held out, and Sapnap staggers to stand beside them, obviously just woken up. Hopefully the others are on the move, too.

But what draws Wilbur’s attention is Ranboo. Standing next to Dream, slouched. Eyes no longer purple, but vacant, staring, dull. Dream has a possessive hand on his shoulder. Ranboo himself isn’t moving.

(betrayed betrayed betrayed even if history does not repeat it rhymes echoes and rhymes and he should’ve known better than to trust should’ve known better than to think that no one would stab him in the back because that’s just what people do)

“I hope you took advantage of the time we gave you to prepare,” Dream says. “We thought it’d be only fair. But it’s checkmate now.”

And the smile on his mask seems to grow.

[misterewrites]

Intro Casey 101 (Mirror’s Edge)

Hello everyone, E hoping you are all doing good! Here it is! The next chapter of the side project that's now my second major one. Because I have a problem and cannot be stopped! Haha stay safe, wash your hands, wear your masks, keep yourself, your loved ones and each other safe, get the vaccine if you can and remember to take care of yourselves.

Feel free to share this with your friends, leave me comments, feedback, reblogs. every bit makes me happy and helps! Have a great week and stay safe! E is out!

If you want an easier time to read it or to read it from the beginning you can follow the link below. Tumblr hates links and will probably shadow block my tags but you know what? Tumblr hates me in general so oh well

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30599756/chapters/78163523

Summary:  Casey is the head of the local Neighborhood Watch (and by head, he means only employee) Whenever not helping his best friend take down corrupted, evil jerkbutts, he spends his time running, maintaining and helping the magical/supernatural residents of Willow's Brook. Life is never static but Casey sometimes wishes it was a little less hectic. Just because he can handle it doesn't mean he wants to.

-----

Willow Rook was a peaceful neighborhood suburb located on the outskirts of Newton Haven, just within the city’s boundaries. Rows of mismatched houses and apartments spread out across the maddening maze that was suburbia. Fernspeaker Drift park was nestled in the heart of the neighborhood, its magical and mundane flora bringing a peaceful harmonic nature to the urban sprawl of man. The towering skyscrapers of downtown could be seen far into the distance, a reminder to the residents the city was never too far away.

The sounds of children screaming and shouting is what awoke Casey. He let out an unhappy groan as he rose from the hard wooden desk he accidentally fell asleep on. He rubbed his aching jaw, trying to loosen it from the rough night he had.

“Fuck” He yawned groggily “I really need to have a pillow here or something.”

He ran his hand through his normally wavy dark brown hair as his sea green eyes glanced about his “office”.

Office was much too generous a word for what he worked out of: It was tiny bungalow with barely enough room for a desk and chair, a case file drawer and the tv that sat ontop of it. Casey mentally prepared himself as he pulled open the curtains and allowed natural light to hit his face.

“Ugggggggh” Casey shielded his eyes from the harsh gleam of the morning “Why must the sun punish me?”

Casey stretched the crick in his neck while keeping an eye on the outside world: The neighborhood was particularly lively today with people out and about. The elderly elf Mr. Thistlebush was complaining about something or another to his dwarfish neighbor Mrs. Boulderfist who politely nodded and humored the old elf. Evan Starsunder, a muscular orc with dark green skin, tipped his mail cap tiredly to everyone he passed as he made his way into his cozy abode for a well earned rest. The newly married halfing (similiar but legally distinct from hobbits) couple Mr. and Mrs. Tealeaf took a stroll across the grassy field where Casey’s office stood, hand in hand and very much the picturesque ideal of young love.

Casey opened the window to let everyone know he was open for business.

“Good morning Mister Remington!” Mr. Tealeaf waved with a smile.

“How are you doing this morning?” Mrs. Tealeaf asked, half curious and half cheerfully.

“Great!” Casey lied, trying to stifle a yawn “Just great. Keeping on eye on the neighborhood, same as usual.”

“Keep up the good work!”

“We appreciate everything you do for all of us!”

“You’re welcome!” he gave a halfhearted wave after the retreating couple.

He sighed, mindlessly fiddling with the engagement ring on his finger.

“I should take it off” Casey spoke to no one in particular “She probably isn’t wearing hers anymore. I shouldn’t give people the wrong idea. I should just take it off and that’ll be it. That’ll be it. Yep. One slip and….yeah.”

His voice trailed off as he was unable to finish the thought.

“CASE!” A voice shouted.

Casey leaned out and squinted, trying to see through the glare of the sunlight to find the person who demanded his attention.

“CASE!” The voice called out again, the blurry far off figure slowly shifting into a more recognizable shape.

Casey rolled his eyes “What is it Kay? I’m working!”

Kasey Remington or, as most people called her, Kay was Casey’s twin sister. Nearly identical face with the same wavy dark brown hair and sea green eyes except Kay had gotten their mother’s button nose out of the deal. Growing up, the twins often questioned why their parents had named them Casey with a C and Kasey with the K but the only response they ever gave was it was funny.

Well not to the twins but they were used to it by now.

Kasey, in her mommy cardigan and white blouse, flagged down her brother to come outside.

“Yeah I’m good up here.” Casey smiled from his slightly elevated position.

“You’re tall for like 5 minutes and you’re already being unbearable about it.” Kasey huffed, shooting her twin a stink eye.

Casey chuckled “Mad with power. Classic story troupes.”

“Cliche you mean.” Kasey laughed “Sorry to bother you but….did you sleep in your office again?”

Casey rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly as he realized he was still wearing his purple tank top and black basketball shorts from the other day.

“Umm well you see….”

“Is your office still a mess?”

Casey glanced at the half crumpled burger wrappers and scattered papers that littered every inch of desk.

“Pfft, no.”

“That’s a yes” Kasey replied with a knowing smirk “Case….”

Casey fiercely pointed at his twin “Don’t.”

“Case, you can’t keep…”

“Yes I can. Watch me.”

Kasey rolled her eyes “I have better things to do.”

Casey scrunched up his face with false hurt “Better than hanging out with your brother? Alright I see how it is. See if I get you anything for Christmas.”

“No! Not my possible Christmas presents!” Kasey fell to her knees dramatically “You monster! How could you do to this to me?”

“Like this.” Casey spoke with a grin, closing the window without another word.

And made his way out of the building a moment later. He offered a hand to his sister and the twins burst out with laughter as Casey helped Kasey to her feet.

“So what’s up Kay?” Casey asked with genuine interest “Where’s Chester?”

Kasey scratched her chin thoughtfully “He’s...got...a….little league game today.”

“Wooooow took you a full five seconds to remember what your kid’s up today.” Casey snickered “Finally stop signing him up for everything?”

“Ha flipping ha.” Kasey shook her head mockingly “It’s not my fault he wants to do any and everything. Besides it’s not the worst thing in the world to enable my son’s interests. I just wish he slowed down a bit.”

“True. Did you thank him for the house he made for me?”

“Yes and he said you’re welcome. Still got it?”

Casey scoffed as he pulled out his necklace: The simple shape of home clasped carefully onto his chain.

“As a cleric of the hearth nothing is more important than a family’s love.”

“Except” Kasey murmured softly “Maybe your fiancée?”

“Nope!” Casey threw his hands in the air and turned away from his sister “Not having this conversation. Byeeeee.”

“Case! Casey you’re acting like a child!”

“Would a child do this? Hey Seth!”

A gawky human teenager with dark black clothing and every skull accessory imaginable flinched uncomfortably at the sudden attention.

Casey nodded his head in confirmation “Yeah you! Curfew’s 2:30 A.M. The Hallow spell won’t work during the witching hour so I want you back here before 3. Got it?”

Seth gave a low mumble and wandered off as quickly as his legs could take him.

“Casey.” Kasey laced her voice with a firmness only a mother could muster.

“Whaaaaaat?” Casey whirled around irritated “Look I made my choice and she made hers and that’s it.”

Kasey raised an eyebrow “You two have been in love with each other since we were kids.”

“Don’t you…!”

“Case, why don’t you ask her again?”

Casey said nothing, opting to gesture to his office to answer his question. Written in bright white letters across the walls of the building were the words “Neighborhood Watch.”

Kasey rubbed her arm guiltily “Case…”

“You gonna take over?” Casey questioned, his voice soft but controlled “You gonna take over for mom? Cuz she retired and unless there’s someone running the watch, all of this...”

He motions to the families walking, playing, living their lives together in harmony. A magical community at peace.

“All this goes away. We’re going to have to move everyone into other magical neighborhoods and under their Neighborhood Watches. And that’s not fair to them.”

Kasey let out a sad sigh “It’s not fair to you.”

“I’m fine” Casey lied “I’m okay I promise. It’s for the best.”

Kasey shook her head “You can lie to yourself but you can’t lie to me. See you for dinner?”

Casey hugged his twin tightly, pouring as much love as he could into the gesture.

“Of course. I’ll bring fries.”

Kasey made a face, playfully pushing him away “Would you bring something else, please?”

“Fine, mashed potatoes.”

“Ugh. Bye Case.”

“Bye Kay!”

Kasey eyed the engagement ring for a moment before taking her leave.

Casey ran his hands through his hair, wondering how much worse today could get.

He turned to make his way back to his office when he spotted a familiar face nearby.

His heart began to thunder loudly in his ears, the phantom sensation of lips pressed against his own ran chills down his spine while his cheeks flushed a bright red. His legs felt weak and butterflies filled his stomach as he took in the sight of Jaime casually walking down the street.

Jaime looked as beautiful as ever: Her long dark red hair was tied into a single braid that hung over her shoulder and shimmered in the soft glow of the morning. Her light brown eyes gleamed with a thoughtfully gaze as she looked at her phone. She was wearing his dark purple hoodie with dark blue jeans and sneakers. Her glasses were cutely askew and Casey felt the overwhelming urge to run over and fix them for her.

The engagement ring on his finger felt impossibly heavy yet light all at once.

He should talk to her. That was okay, right? To talk to someone he’s in love with and desperately wanted to be with. Did she want to talk to him? They left on decent terms. Well maybe. Hopefully. God what if she was mad at him? Or worse, hated him? She could never hate him that was silly. But perhaps she wasn’t ready to speak to him.

He knew he wasn’t ready.

Casey turned to Jaime’s direction then pulled away. He pivoted on his feet to face her again before glancing downwards towards the grass. His hands fidgeted uneasily as a shout threatened to spill out of his mouth.

Casey returned quickly to his office and shut close the window. Resisting the urge to stare at Jaime, he opted instead to reach for a crumpled piece of paper. He smoothed it out and began mindlessly scrawling upon its surface, drawing nothing in particular.

It was comical how automatic Casey’s responses became while he worked in this building: Upon hearing the knock at his door, he rose to his feet and opened it without a second thought.

Casey’s heart leapt to his throat at the sight of Jaime standing at the base of the steps from the bungalow. She smiled shyly, pushing up her glasses further up on the bridge of nose before giving a friendly wave. Her other hand was tucked deeply in the hoodie’s pocket.

“Hey sweetie” Jaime paused, pursing her lips for a moment “Case. How are you Case? Doing good Case? Can I stop now?”

Casey let out a genuine laugh “Hey swe….Jaime. You can stop. I’m good. I’m good. Good.”

He caught sight of his engagement ring gleaming in the sunlight. He quickly shoved it inside his pocket.

“That’s good. That’s good.” Jaime nodded “I’m glad to hear that.”

Casey caught her wandering glance across the office and quickly shifted his weight to block the view.

“So how’s the new job?” He crossed his arms in an clumsy fashion “Everything okay at the Grimoire?”

Jaime dug at the grass with her shoe “It’s good. Chaotic as usual but hey what do you expect for a magical library, right?”

The two chuckled together and locked eyes for a moment. As one they broke off their gaze, their cheeks slowly turning a pinkish hue.

Casey recovered first “How’s your brother? We talk but ever since last month he hasn’t recruited me to topple any corrupt bosses lately. I’m getting bored.”

“You sure you bored?” Jaime rolled her eyes “There’s no way the Neighborhood Watch is getting that soft.” “Haha I wish.”

An awkward silence fell over the couple as the realization of what subject they landed on washed over them.

“Finn’s good. Busy but good.” Jaime spoke with a fragile softness in her voice “You know my bro, always trying to save the world.”

“Right...”

Casey couldn’t help but noticed Jaime’s body language: She tucked both of her hands into the pockets, her frame shrunk like she was mentally kicking herself as she gawkily fidgeted back and forth.

“Hey.”

Jaime glanced upwards towards Casey, her light brown eyes shining brightly in the sun’s glow.

Casey could feel his heart ache with love and longing as he spoke simply “Don’t worry about it beautiful.”

Jaime said nothing. Instead, she closed the distance between them, gently cupping his cheek in her hand.

“Take care of yourself sweetie. Please. For me?”

Casey could feel his ache worsen but he just nodded, murmuring softly “For you.”

Jaime’s smile was sad but lovely. She pulled away slowly, allowing her fingers to linger for a moment.

“Bye for now Casey.”

“Bye Jaime.”

She left without another word and Casey felt exhaustion rush into every fiber of his body. He closed the door reluctantly and took a seat. He stared unhappily at the drawing of Jaime he hadn’t realized he’d be sketching.

“Fucking hell.”

He slumped deeper into his chair, feeling much too drained to face the rest of the day.

-----

“Shit, shit, shit” Seth muttered to himself as he raced through the night. The normally inviting, homely suburb was cold and distant: The shadows moved in eerie unnatural ways and once or twice Seth could soft pattering of paws follow closely behind. The modest homes and apartments were silent, basked in the darkness as they towered over him in silence.

“Just a cat” He mumbled to himself, glancing at his phone and wincing at the 3:30 AM it showed in a white font.

Seth entered Willow Rook proper and paled at the lack of comfort he normally felt in the air. Casey had warned him the Hallow spell, a powerful ward of holy magic that protected the neighborhood and hid it away from the world, would not work between 3 and 4 AM. Seth assumed he was merely attempting to scare him to return early. It never occurred to him that Casey was telling the truth.

Seth fumed silently “It’s fine. I’m late, it’s fine nothing followed me here and it’s fine.”

A chill ran down his spine as something rustled nearby. He whirled around in time to see something lunge straight for his chest.

He was ashamed how quickly he flinched, closing his eyes shut while raise his hands in a poor attempt to defend himself. He made quick prayer to whatever deity who happened to be on duty at the moment.

Something thudded against his chest. It didn’t stay long, instead quickly making its way up his shirt and tucked itself comfortably on his shoulder. It wasn’t too heavy but it was big whatever it was. Seth was surprised how warm and fluffy it was and swore it was purring in his ear.

He cracked open his eyes and found himself staring at an orange tabby cat: it was a fat cat with stripes of white and orange running down its body. Its dark green eyes stared curiously at him. If he didn’t know better, he would’ve thought it was asking him a question.

“Hey buddy” Seth breathed a sigh of relief, scratching the cat’s chin “What are you doing out here? Scaring the shit out of me?”

The cat pawed at his face rather roughly and with enough force to actually make him turn his head.

Seth felt the blood drain as he saw something approach in the shifting shadows: A monstrous thing, thin and skeletal. Its skin was a dark shade, almost as black as the darkness it blended in with. It crawled forward slowly on all fours, thick talons digging up and cutting through the pavement with ease. A bloody wrap covered its eyes and two thick, elongated fangs protruded from its lower jaw. The rest of its face was smooth and featureless.

The words died in Seth’s throat. The best he could do was a pathetic croaking noise he was grateful no one could hear in the dead night.

The creature tilted its head as if listening for any sign of its prey.

Seth couldn’t move, the fear gripping him tightly in its thrall. His breathing hitched and he could feel his body shake beyond his control as the creature inched closer and closer.

The cat leapt off his shoulder, silently landing onto the grass and bolting into the night.

Seth’s stomach churned and twisted anxiously as the creature stared in his direction, a growling rumble escaping its mouth. It let loose a maddening shriek, one that shook Seth’s very bones. It stood on its hind legs and grew to an inhuman height. Its mouth lowered, stretching impossibly wide as it leapt forward.

Seth felt cold and empty as the sight of the monster filled his sight. The fight ebbed out of him and left only an overwhelming sense of dread and finality.

This is how it ended.

It was an odd sensation to feel at the end: the warmth and glow of the sun at his back. Perhaps some higher being was taking mercy on him in his last moments on this plane of existence.

Wait, no the warmth was getting brighter and hotter. An unbearably stuffy and blazing with an intensity of a summer day that grew each passing moment.

Seth groaned, wincing in pain as a sudden flash of light zoomed past with incredible speed. It burned brightly, dispelling the silhouetted shadows with a burning flame despite it being no bigger than a baseball.

The creature reared back and thrashed about, too caught off guard by the sudden glow to realize it was coming straight for it. The orb collided with the creature’s chest and sunk deeply into its chest. The creature howled and buckled in pain, bending and twisting at unnatural angles.

The light faded and the orb with it but Seth could see the fist sized hole it had burned through the chest of the creature.

The creature weakly swayed, seemingly weakened by whatever hit it.

“Not in my neighborhood you punkass bitch.”

Seth weakly turned to find Casey standing there, the fat orange tabby at his feet. The head of the Neighborhood Watch finally changed his clothes: He wore a purple jacket with a black shirt that read “Neighborhood Watch” in faded white lettering. His gray sweats were wrinkled and his feet were adorned with two different sneakers. Outstretched in his hand like he had taken a swing at something was a glowing metal baseball bat that pulsed with radiant power.

“Casey, I…” Seth mumbled out but Casey motioned with his head.

“Go home kid. This ain’t the minor leagues.”

Seth was ashamed to say he ran, frantically and as fast as his sore legs could take him. Whatever just attacked him was out of his weight class.

Luckily Casey was in a league of his own.

The creature clicked its tongue unhappily as it moved uneasily on its hind legs. It bent and twisted its neck in a way that would’ve broken it if the creature had been human.

Casey rolled his eyes as he gripped the bat tightly in his hand “Drama queen much, aren’t you?

The creature said nothing. Instead it threw itself forward full force towards the cleric.

“Here we go.” Casey murmured tiredly as he drew his bat back.

The creature took a swipe at him but Casey already moved out of the way, dodging to the side and allowing the creature sail past him. It twisted its head around only to get a face full of metal: Casey’s swing caught the creature in the cheek and sent it reeling backwards.

The creature shrieked in pain as smoke curled off its face, the cheek swollen and charred an ashy black. It didn’t hesitate to attack once more: It stood up and tried to crush Casey under its full weight.

Casey just shoved the bat directly into the hole he made earlier.

The creature hissed and retreated away from the holy infused weapon. More smoke bellowed from the now enlarged hole.

Casey raised his bat threateningly “Go back to wherever the hell you came from or I will beat you out of existence you flipping abomination.”

If the creature understood the threat, it made no indication. Instead it doubled down on its poor choices.

It sat back on the balls of its feet, tensing its legs in preparation for a mighty leap.

Between helping the inhabitants of the neighborhood with their requests, talking to Jaime and frankly being awoken to a fucking demon attack at 3 am, Casey was just done with all yesterday and evidently today.

Casey’s hand glowed with a dazzling radiant light as he spokes the words of faith. Magic formed and condensed into a single ball of pure sun in his palm.

The creature sprinted forward, tearing up the grass underneath its feet while it desperately made one final dash towards the cleric.

Casey lobbed the ball high in the air and fell into a batter’s stance.

The orb hung in the air for a moment like a blazing sun then fell back to earth.

The creature leapt, talons aimed for Casey’s neck.

Casey let out a mighty swing. There was a loud crack as the bat made contact with the orb. The ball of light sped off and shoved itself down the creature’s throat. The bat follow through connected with the head of the creature and knocked it cleaned off.

The ball gleamed bright in the beast’s stomach before exploding outward like a supernova. The creature flaked away into blacken ash, head and all.

The gleam of light vanished and Casey found himself under the cover of night once more.

He wiped at his eyes tiredly as his phone beeped. He glanced at it to see it was now 4 in the morning.

There was a soft hum as the Hallow reactivated: the air shimmered with an unseen power and grew warm with comfort.

The ashes vanished without warning, the unholy remains cleansed by the sanctity of the neighborhood.

The cat drew closer to Casey, its eyes peering at him thoughtfully.

“Hey Julius” Casey greeted the cat politely “Long night?”

Orange Julius meowed in response.

“Thanks for keeping an eye on him. I knew he’d stay out late but hopefully he understands why we have a rather generous curfew.”

Orange Julius nodded.

“That’s been like what? The third demonic hell beast/ abomination this month. That’s a lot for a month.”

Orange Julius meowed in agreement.

Casey pursed his lips thoughtfully “Hey, did you see Finn?”

The cat tilted his head quizzically.

“I mean all this time you. He. Well you aren’t around whenever he comes by” Casey scratched his neck sheepish “You are his dad’s cat. You sure Fernspeaker wouldn’t want you to be with him?”

The cat paused for a moment before shaking his head.

“It’s not because Jaime’s folks adopted him after…..well that happened, is it?”

The cat pawed the grass below him.

“Right.” Casey nodded in understanding “Neighborhood’s your responsibility. I get that.”

Orange Julius meowed then vanished into the darkness.

Casey glanced at the statue of Fernspeaker that stood tall in the center of park. It had been erected the same time the park was named after him, both shortly after his and his wife’s death 22 years ago.

Fernspeaker Drift, Finnrick’s biological father, was once a powerful druid, deeply in tune with nature and a firm believer in helping others. This neighborhood was his passion project. The Neighborhood Watch was formed after his passing.

The Neighborhood Watch was created because of his passing. Nobody wanted a repeat of what happened all those years ago.

Finnrick told him it was okay for Casey to not to take the job but it felt like such a disrespect to let this whole place dissolve and scatter its residents.

Casey sighed and wandered back to his office. Office hours were closed but the Neighborhood Watch’s job was never done.

[hange-zone]

Can I please have more eremin? The way you write down armin's thought is just *chef kiss* hopefully canon since I am feeling so emotional for the end.

mild snk 139 spoilers!

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In the moments after Mikasa had disappeared into the titan’s mouth, its body had stilled and collapsed against his. Armin pulled himself out, tearing away the red tendrils from his steaming skin, and skimmed across the mass of sinew and flesh, down the neck and arms of his titan, right to where Eren was. As he approached there was a low, resonating sound that washed all over the cavern of the Founder’s chest, and the moment his hands grasped its exposed bone he felt the wind knocked out of him and everything went black.

The first thing he noticed when he came to was that the roaring sound had grown louder. It was all around him now, and as he opened his eyes he realised it was the crashing of waves along a moonlit beach. Eren was waiting for him in the pale light, his features softened in its glow and long hair blowing gently in the salty breeze. He was sitting among the waves as they rolled in and out along the shore, legs splayed out in front of him and leaning on his hands.  The waves curled back and the rivulets of receding water were drawing his outline across the sand. He looked small and stark, an ink-stain against the white expanse of the sandy beach.

When he saw Armin he merely tilted his head to the side, motioning at the space beside him. The other boy sat down wordlessly in the shallow water.  The foam-tipped waves snuck past his ankles and up his legs, soaking his clothes. He felt his skin chill as the water drew back, and then after a breath it was flooding him again, drawing up and around him, around them, as they sat together among the waves.

Eren was the first to speak.

“I’ve done terrible things,” he said, voice wavering. “I can’t go back —”

“No,” Armin said, even if he knew it was a lie.

The other boy shook his head wordlessly.

Then, almost to himself, very quietly:  “But this is what I wanted, wasn’t it? I said: When I heard about the people beyond the walls I was disappointed…” he faltered, “…I thought I wanted freedom for its own sake-”

And then he stopped in surprise, because Armin had reached over and laced their fingers together. Then, the other boy’s blue eyes urging him on, he continued: “But that wasn’t freedom - no, not for its own sake,  I wanted freedom to - to do things with it. To live a long life with friends, find love, give love…”

At his words Armin tightened his fingers around the other boy’s and he felt Eren grip his hand harder, his own fingers curling into the back of Armin’s soft palms.

“And seeing everything - the past and future and standing in the stream of time? I could only watch myself. I don’t know if I chose, not properly. But I’m choosing again now. That this is how it ends. I’m not asking you to forgive me - and it’s a mess and I’m sorry you and Mikasa are always left cleaning that up. I just hope you make the best of this. That…you make my death mean something. Can you do that for me?”

He bit his lip, hard, and looked out to meaningfully to the dark water. Armin could see that his eyes were also dark and wet. The endless expanse of water with its rolling waves was reflected in them.

Armin took a long, slow breath as he thought over what exactly the boy was asking. “Yes,” he said finally, and felt Eren relax just a little in his hands, even if both of them were trembling.

And they talked: about everything, about what it was like to be children again, what they imagined the lands of fire and ice to be like, what they were going to tell Mikasa and Jean and Connie and Levi and all the ones who were left. Their words blended into the night and it was like old times again, under the shade and sprawling branches of the rain tree behind their houses. Lying in the warm afternoon sun and speaking about the future. Speaking about anything they wanted.

Soon the edges of the ocean were beginning to light up, the first rays of dawn peeking over the horizon.

Eren flicked his gaze to the shimmering waves and then to Armin’s.

“It’s time to go,” he said, and Armin nodded.

Eren stood up first, pulling the other boy to his feet, still holding his hand like he had so many times, so many years ago, and lead him deeper into the water’s embrace. The rhythm of rolling tide matched the even rise and fall of their chests as it drew close around them.

The waves had been calm before, but as they stepped deeper the water began to get choppier. Still they walked on, hand in hand, slowly, until it was right at their chests, until it was dark and churning, washing over their faces and they were left gasping in between breaths. Armin licked his lips and wiped the back of his palm across his face with his loose hand. His eyes were wet and stinging, and he couldn’t tell if the salty wetness against his skin was the ocean or his tears.

Amidst the currents he felt Eren give his hand a hard squeeze, before loosening his grip. But Armin was the first to let go, and the other boy copied his motions, warm touch lingering for a second before the cold water ran between his fingers. He watched Eren took another step away, watched as a dark wave rolled by and swallowed him up, a mop of brown hair and familiar grey-green shirt lost among the swirling, inky waves.

Armin took a big breath, careful not to inhale the seawater, and stepped backward slowly to shore, gaze fixed on horizon. He looked on as Eren’s tiny form drifted further and further out until he couldn’t spot it anymore, lost among the roiling waves.

When his feet found the sand the waters were calm again, the ocean wavering and caught up in the gentle light of dawn. He threw himself back onto the sandy shore, chest heaving, and drew his knees to his chest. Armin closed his eyes, focusing on the roaring and crashing of the waves which seemed to swell and consume him.

When he opened them again, his knees were still curled against his chest but the ground was mud and firm underneath him. His eyes were wet as he let his gaze trail up, along the forms of the titans - their titans - before him, taking slow breaths as he looked at the scene in front of him.

Rising above the mist were two smouldering colossi. Once locked in combat, they were now slumped against each other in an embrace.

----

hello anon - thanks for this and you’re too kind...i’m glad i do him justice, he’s my favourite:”) here you go & i put it on ao3 - which is a bit better bc you can contextualise it, but anyway if not i recommend it goes with this.

and I was thinking about this last night so thanks for giving me an excuse to indulge in this. Also my comprehension sucks I thought you meant eremin for the end lol so…this was made…and (bad) excuses on my part again but this is not exactly canon...but it is a loose interpretation of or riff on canon events and it is personally how i’d like to see it end? More thoughts under the cut bc i’m sure you’d appreciate being spared more messy snk discourse:”) 

Their entire conversation’s hard…would love to flesh it out more but that requires more emotional energy I currently don’t have, just know that I think of this scene as 1) armin doesn’t condone what the other boy’s done, it’s a terrible thing, just that it’s now happened and he has to work with that. And 2) this is eren saying sorry he was not the leader, he was small and scared the whole time, and 3) his act of going into the sea is that of relinquishing control, but in that moment it’s a truly free choice as well when he lets armin let him go. just wanted to clarify bc I think negotiating the ending is hard! And I don’t want it to be misinterpreted because these are similar problems from what I’ve heard about the canon ending. Anyway, hope that suffices. I’m such a sucker for metaphors and the like, and I’m personally very excited by the idea of the ocean and what people have done with it :) 

[ahkaahshi]

the life of your dreams [ushijima wakatoshi x reader]

pairing: ushijima wakatoshi x fem reader

genre: fluff with angst if you look under a microscope; modern day royal au

warning(s): suggestive themes, like two swear words if I counted right pfft

word count: 2.4k

overview: everyone would kill to be in your position: set to be married into a royal family and become the new princess of a faraway kingdom. well, everyone but you, that is.

notes: a special piece for ushiwaka on his birthday, but he deserves love all the time :)

The sounds of laughter and chatter, lilting ballroom music, and endless congratulations ring in your ears like a distant memory. Sitting outside in the humid air, you let the hum of cicadas overtake you and silence your mind. Underneath the heel of your sleek, black stiletto, you roll a small piece of gravel back and forth with a crunch. Your hands covered with silky, black gloves absentmindedly clutch onto one another tightly--a nervous habit of yours that your mother had warned made you appear standoffish at times.

Sitting outside of a regal estate, filled to the brim with luxurious furniture, prized artifacts, and countless paintings of quaint things--like the countryside on a sunny day or women picking flowers in fields--you couldn’t be unhappier with your situation. In the warm glow of the lanterns dotting the path nearby, the large diamond perched atop your left ring finger made itself known once again. You’re surprised you’ve gone this long without noticing it, seeing as it adores being the center of attention.

You want nothing more than to shun it. To throw it into the fountain less than twenty feet away and be done with it all. But the uproar that would create would be catastrophic, and you’d find yourself the subject of many scathing articles questioning the integrity of your engagement to your royal fiancé and the righteousness of your morals.

It was all too much. The constant attention. The schedule packed with a different, public appearance or frivolous event every hour, it seemed. The disgustingly sweet lies you barely choked out in response to those fed to you by your soon-to-be husband.

You could no longer stand to listen to anyone murmur their feelings of anguish and envy, saying how much they wished that they were living in your dream of a life. But, little did they know that their dream is your nightmare.

How can you possibly be happy when you wake up beside someone in the mornings you don’t love? How can you be content knowing all the acts of affection between the two of you are staged? Knowing that you’re nothing more than a charity case to this entire royal family? Realizing that nothing you’ve done for the past four months has been done of your own, free will?

Taking a deep breath, you reluctantly rise from the bench you’d spent the last half hour sitting on, pulling yourself together. Your (e/c) eyes wander over the posh exterior of the extravagant estate before your feet slowly bring you down the path back to the door.

The sound of your heels clicking against the marble flooring feels deafening, given the stark silence that has befallen the house. Nobody's around save for a few maids lightly dusting the precious treasures the royal family owns. It’s late at night, so you expect everyone to be asleep aside from the seemingly restless crew of butlers and servants.

When you make your way back to the quarters you share with your fiancé, however, you remember that many things can happen under the cover of the night. Your hand freezes in its journey towards the handle when you hear loud, muffled moans echoing from behind the polished, wooden door. Clear as day, you hear your prince murmuring praises, presumably while performing acts that are reaping sounds of pleasure from a woman’s mouth--probably the one you'd noticed him ogling at your event earlier whenever the two of you weren’t flocked by family or other attendees interested in all the fleshy details of your engagement.

As the realization that your future husband is cheating on you right under your nose sets in, your blood starts to boil. Heat courses through your entire body as your emotions start to take hold.

You’re not feeling upset. Or betrayed. You’re livid.

It’s not the infidelity that brings you over the edge. No. It’s the fact that while you’re here, suffering beneath the burdens of having an impending wedding to a man you are far from loving, he’s still getting what he wants.

That's when you snap and everything that’s been holding you back shatters. The opinions of high society that have kept you bound to him. The refusal of your parents to let you break off the engagement because of their own selfish wishes to be rich and famous. The feeling that you could maybe, possibly love him after years of being worn down and living overseas.

In an instant, it’s all gone; and the only thought in your mind now is, Damn it, I want to be happy.

Your first act of unshackling the chains that had been trapping you is reaching down to slide off your beautiful, but wickedly uncomfortable, stilettos. Once they’re off, you’re able sneak away in silence to find a butler who’s willing to fetch you a coat and keys to your car. It’s not a bad-looking vehicle by any means, but it’s been shoved away in the garage, you find, to avoid being spotted by any of the rich and pretentious who only arrive in limos filled with champagne and drive a Rolls Royce whenever they absolutely must shoulder the burden of driving themselves.

The butler asked no questions and swore himself to secrecy--though you’re sure the hundred-dollar bill you’d slapped in his hand had zipped his mouth right shut. Tossing your shoes onto the passenger seat and sticking the key in the ignition, you drive away from your sickening life with the royals to find the only person you’ve ever wanted and need now more than ever.

You’re not in the most inconspicuous of outfits, so you tie the belt of your long coat tightly around your form as you exit your car once you reach your destination. The arch of your foot throbs with indignation as you step into your heels once more, but you’re able to ignore it knowing that you’re at the only place you could ever ask to be. Pale, fluorescent lighting beats down on your form from above as you walk through the hallways of the apartment complex.

With no hesitation, you knock on one of the doors and wait with bated breath. The lock clicks and the door opens moments later to reveal a tall man whose familiar, olive eyes set on your figure with an intense stare. His silence reveals his shock at seeing you--the woman he was forced to give up, but whose heart he still held.

“Wakatoshi...” you utter softly, (e/c) eyes finding his gaze as your heart begins racing in your chest, “I won’t do it anymore.”

He wordlessly steps aside, allowing you into his apartment so you can talk in a more private setting. The last thing he wants is for a nosy neighbor to see a future princess visiting a man who isn’t her fiancé at such a late hour and tip off the press.

“(F/n), what are you saying?” he asks, his fingers raking through his slightly messy, dark hair. His eyebrows are furrowed ever so slightly in an emotion that could be confusion, irritation, or both, for that matter.

You untie the belt of your coat, which he slides off your shoulders for you, revealing the beautiful, evening dress you wore beneath. Its shimmering material composed of green and blue hues cascade down every curve of your body, into a pool of emerald at your feet. It takes every fiber of his being not to reach out and touch you to make sure you’re not just a manifestation of his yearning for you.

Tears quickly spring to your eyes as you answer, “I refuse to do it. I won’t marry him. I can’t.”

He shakes his head. “Your family won’t be happy if you back out.”

“Fuck that!” you cry as you kick off your shoes, bringing yourself a few inches further away from his face, “I want to be happy! This is my life, and I'm not going to spend it with some cheating prince who doesn’t even give a shit about me just to keep the peace!”

Silence befalls the apartment that’s only broken by your loud sniffle. You lift your hands to your face to wipe away your tears, but he soon takes over the job for you. Tenderly, he cups the side of your face in his hand, immersing his fingers in your (h/c) locks of hair and using his thumb to collect the droplets that travel down your cheek.

Your breath hitches in your throat at that touch of his that you’d never forgotten and that you’d imagined for the past four months to keep yourself sane. “I never loved him,” you confess, voice strained from the emotions that were overwhelming you all at once, “It’s always been you, Wakatoshi. I’ve only ever loved you this entire time.”

The coldness to his demeanor softens and he moves his face close enough to yours for you to feel his warm breath fanning across your skin. There’s a long moment of silence as you gaze into his dark eyes, in which you see a recognizable flicker of longing. In yours, watery but wide with hope and searing with desire, he sees every moment in his life that he’s ever promised you his love.

He hates asking unnecessary questions, and the strength of your will is enough to keep him from wondering if you’re sure of your decision.

“I’m giving him back the ring tomorrow. After that, I want to be yours.” You press your forehead against his and add, “Can I come over tomorrow evening, so we can go away for a bit?” as you absentmindedly take to tracing the handsome features on his face with your silk-covered fingers.

Your noses are touching now, bringing your lips dangerously close. “There’s no going back from that, you know,” he whispers. You notice the way his fingers press against the back of your head, as if he wants more than anything to lose himself in your affection.

“I know, baby,” you coo, “All this time I’ve spent separated from you has been hell, Wakatoshi. I don’t wanna go back.”

Your words are enough to crumble his resolve, and all thoughts of keeping his feelings hidden in an effort not to meddle in your relationship with the prince leave his mind in an instant.

“I love you, (f/n),” he breathes, closing the gap between your mouths without any hesitation.

The feeling of his lips on yours reminds you of what kisses should feel like. That no matter how soft and gentle, or rough and lustful they are, they should always be meaningful and filled with love. After months of being forced to share performative but empty displays of affection--if you could even call it that--with a prince whom you felt nothing but contempt towards, having Ushijima’s lips against your own felt heavenly.

His other hand moves to your waist, sliding along the sleek fabric of your dress before snaking around your back to pull you closer to him. The sensation of your body flush against his sends tingles down your spine and encourages you to wrap your arms around his neck. You feel weightless, like you’re falling for him all over again, and it’s better than anything you’d experienced since before you’d met your soon-to-be ex-fiancé.

It’s not long before his fingers find the zipper of your dress so that his hands can roam the familiar expanse of your body, free of inhibitions. Your heart flutters in your chest at the softness in his tone as he affirms, “I’ll always love you.”

It’s a promise he presses into every inch of your skin while your back is pressed against the plush comforter of his bed that night, and one he’s clearly intent on keeping.

A blissful visit and a vow to meet the next evening so you can finally be together gives you each enough peace and security to withstand one more day apart. In the yellow light of a lamp on a bedside table in one of the estate’s guest rooms, you stay awake an hour longer to compile your feelings into a letter for the prince. While he’s out and about the next day, completely unbothered by the fact that you hadn’t returned to bed the night before, you enlist the help of the butler you’d bribed in packing up your things.

When night falls once more, and your fiancé is sound asleep after having far too many drinks with his friends, you place your neatly folded letter on his nightstand. Your eyes linger on the glittering diamond once more when you set it gently atop your note. You’d gotten so used to its presence on your finger that it now felt bare without it. But, what was more important was that your heart felt full knowing where you were going from here.

Silently, you leave your chambers for the last time and sneak out to the garage, where your very average chariot awaits, nestled between the wall and the first in a legacy of luxury vehicles that are too outdated to see the sun. In a matter of twenty minutes, you’re back at Ushijima’s front door, filled to the brim with anticipation.

When he opens the door and sees you standing in the hallway, life neatly packed up into nothing more than a suitcase and a duffle bag like you’d never had a home at the estate to begin with, he realizes how much he wants to give you a place where you can finally feel comfortable and secure. Though your face is devoid of any makeup, and you’re wearing a much humbler outfit comprised of a sweater and yoga pants, he still thinks you look just as gorgeous as you did the night before.

“It’s done,” you announce, holding up your left hand to show him your empty finger.

In response, he presses one of those kisses that you could never grow tired of against your lips. After sliding his own duffel bag onto his shoulder, he locks up the apartment and leads you to the garage. Once you’ve moved your car inside, out of public view, you load up his car and sit in the passenger seat with a grin spread across your mouth.

“You ready?” he wonders. You notice him pause in his act of starting up the car to look over at you for approval.

Your hands slide around the sides of his face and you give him another, affectionate peck.

“I’ve been ready for a long time now.”

A smile graces his features as he adds, “So have I.”

As the engine of his car comes to life, so does the excitement in your heart, since you’re finally starting the life of your dreams, rather than that of everyone else’s.

[ask-anti-cosmo]

The Return of Anti-Cosmo part 3

Part 1 Part 2

You hung the girly costume in your closet, thinking you’d give it away or modify it for Halloween. Small arms wrapped around you, making you try to swat at the owner.

“Aw, you missed me!” Anti-Cosmo grinned. “I’ve repaid my debt and can now roam as I please!” he said, sounding a little too pleased with himself.

“Good for you. Now how does that ‘We’ll go our separate ways' thing sound?” you huffed.

“Aw, come now! Surely you've come to like me a little.” He poked at you with his wand.

“Knock it off! You’re more like an annoying little brother!” you said and walked from him.

“I can be big if I want to!” he said as his body morphed into the shape of an adult human male. You tried not to look impressed and went to the fridge for some blood. “See? More like a hot step-brother.” He said and winked.

You glanced back and sighed. “Fine, I’ll give you that.”

“So…you know what it’s like to have a brother I take it? Did you have one?” Anti-Cosmo asked.

You shot him a mild glare.

“Come now, I’ve been open with you, now it’s you’re turn!” he insisted.

“Fine, yes I had a brother. Lost him to Polio.” You huffed.

“Polio huh? Let’s see, the vaccine was made in 1954, so your brother passed away before then~?” he asked.

“What’s with that tone?” you glared.

“Just trying to figure out your age~ not simply ‘decades’ old are you?” he teased.

“Neither are you Mr. Centuries!” you huffed.

“Want to know a secret? I’m the youngest Anti-fairy in existence.” He stated proudly.

“What?? Are you serious?” you frowned.

“Indeed, an Anti-fairy can only be born when a fairy is born. Ever since my counterpart was born and destroyed countless cities and lives, the fairies ban themselves from having anymore children. We’re all immortal anyways so it’s not like having more offspring is too terribly important.”

“So you’ll never have kids?”

“Never.” He concluded firmly. “Even if I did want children, it’s not up to me. And my counterpart would be the last fairy alive they’d choose to have the first baby in centuries.”

“Huh…that’s sad.”

“If you knew him you’d know it’d be for the best.”

“I know you, and I can tell you certainly don’t deserve children.”

“Sticks and stones darling. Now then, it’s time to go find the one who put me in that safe.” Anti-Cosmo said and cracked his knuckles.

“You’re going to find her?” you asked eagerly.

“One turn deserves another “ he said and poofed up a spinning grindstone wheel and sharpened his wand against it for a minute.

“…I’m going with you.” You said.

He looked at you surprised. “I thought you didn’t care about me.”

“Well maybe I want to congratulate her.” You said sarcastically. “or learn her secrets.”

“Perfect, so do I. There is no way she could have known all of that information of my weaknesses just from what her grandmother knew. I never even told my doll about butterfly nets! Ooh, and maybe if she’s still alive, I’d see her too…” he grinned wickedly.

“She’d be an old lady.” You told him.

“No doubt, I’m used to that fact.” He shrugged. “I could easily make her much younger in an instant anyhow, so either way it doesn’t matter to me.” He said, swinging his wand slightly.

“That easy huh?” you asked in surprise.

“It would be easier to have an extra drink of blood.” He said, looking at you expectantly.

“No way bozo, you’re as dumb as your counterpart if you think I’d agree to that.” You folded his arms. His eye twitches at the insult.

“I need some kind of payment for you coming along to my revenge plan, it takes magic to teleport things to other places you know. Think of it as gas money.” He said and held his hand out to you.

You glared at his hand then at him again.

“Let me have some blood or you get to stay here while I go after the *beep* who locked me away.” He glared back, now looking impatient.

“Well look who got all entitled after I saved you from said safe.” You snarled. “for someone who preached about equal exchange, I haven’t received much thanks other than unwarranted touching and mocking.”

“Oh sweet summer child…” he said and your blood suddenly went cold. Not just a shivering feeling, your blood literally felt cold, as if it was freezing, slowing and hardening. Anti-Cosmo’s wand glowed with a vicious darkness. “What makes you think I owe you anything after you bit me?” he asked.

“I-if you hold you o-own b-blood in such high reg-gard…” you shivered before leaning forward and biting his arm, breaking the skin through his sleeve. The black shimmering blood escaped his flesh and tingled in your mouth, soaking his clothing.

He stared at you with amusement. “Well, you can’t deny now that we’re even. But if this is what it takes to avoid hurting your pride…” he shrugged and pulled his arm and your face closer before biting your shoulder. You grunted, unused to the sensation and started to feel light headed as your blood warmed and ran into his mouth. You started to struggle and bite harder, but he only laughed at you.

He took one last swallow before letting you go. “There now, I have my payment and you didn’t have to agree to it.” He smirked.

You let go of his arm. “That is not how deals work!!”

“You bit me, so I assumed it was fine to bite you back. What else was I supposed to assume?”

“Listen here you-“

“Magic for blood is my deal you asked for magic, so I took my payment.” He frowned and folded his arms. “You took my blood for releasing me. That made us even. Now that you’ve asked me to use my magic to help you come with me, it’s a deal.”

“Then hurry and finish up your end!” you growled, rubbing your bite mark.

“Nobody likes a whiner.” He huffed and waved his wand, making it glow darkly like it did before.

You felt your feet remove themselves from the ground and fell in a fancy old house. You stumbled from the strange Sensation of being picked up and set down magically. The house looked as though it was starting to be neglected, as if there was a single maid to do everything and wasn’t keeping up. The fact it was night didn’t help with how scary it was looking either.

“My my it has been quite some time~” Anti-Cosmo mused and began to walk around. “Looking a bit more haunted than I remember, but it no doubt belongs to my doll.”

“Does she still live here?” you frowned.

“Hmm…” Anti-Cosmo grinned and started to walk across the floor towards the stairs. He began to step upwards with a rhythmic sway and started to hum for a minute before beginning to sing.

“Places, places, get in your places~ throw on your dress and put on your doll faces…” he chimed, dancing up the stairs in a dancing manor. “Everyone, thinks that you’re perfect, please don’t let them look through the surface.”

He made it to the top of the stairs. He kept stepping to the beat of the song he sang so creepily, his voice echoing through the haunted halls. “Picture, picture, smile for the picture~ Pose with your brother, won’t you be a good SISTER?!” He yelled the last word and you heard a loud shriek echo through the house. You both could hear a set of footprint run from upstairs.

Anti-Cosmo giggled softly and motioned you to follow him. You swallowed and followed him up to a hallway with a room at the end. Inside the room, you could hear a woman crying and another comforting her. Anti-Cosmo grinned cruelly and became to sing again as he walked down the hall slowly.

“D-o-l-l h-o-u-s-e, I see things that nobody else sees. D-o-l-l h-o-u-s-e, I see things that nobody else sees.” He sang creepily before opening the door. Inside was a grown woman, comforting an old lady with hair curlers and lots of scars on her neck. They looked like bite marks, from a child sized mouth. “Hello again, my little doll.” Anti-Cosmo grinned wickedly.

The old lady whimpered at the sight of him, shrinking away and trying to hide behind the younger one.

“You…I buried you in the ocean, how are you here?!” the younger woman said.

“Ah yes, well this lovely dear freed me. We have a lot in common you see~” he said as he touched your face. You slapped his hand away.

“Knock it off you creep.” You huffed.

“I have never called you back…go away, I don’t want anything from you…” the old woman sobbed.

“Yet you send your lovely grand daughter to hunt me down and disengage my interaction with human lives?” he frowned.

“I did not send her…”

“I went on my own! Grandmother told the stories of everything awful you did! Creating worst problems than what she had before you came! You are an evil creature that doesn’t deserve life!” the younger woman yelled at him.

“She knew the price when making a deal with the devil.” Anti-Cosmo yawned. “What do you think, does granny deserves another life? I certainly think so, she used to have the most perfect porcelain face…” he said before waving his wand.

The grandma suddenly began to grow younger, but not just that, you noticed her skin began to shine and her eyes gloss over, looking more and more like a real ceramic doll.

“No! Leave her alone!! I’m the one you want!” the younger woman insisted. “I trapped you!”

“Indeed you did.” He glared and waved his wand at her. Her arms were suddenly chained down to the floor. Walls of a safe began to enclose around her, making her panic. They suddenly stopped.

Anti-Cosmo stepped closer to her. He waved away the safe wall that was in front of him so he could look her in the eye. “How did you know my weaknesses?” he glared. “You knew with too much exactness, and I never told your granny such things. Not even most fairies know as much as you did.” He glared and pointed his wand at her.

“I…I tried to Summon you.” She admitted. “Granny said you were everything opposite to Fairies, so I looked up ways to Summon fairies and…did the opposite of them. I even did it on a Friday the 13th…”

Anti-Cosmo narrowed his eyes. “Clever, but obviously you didn’t succeed.”

“Actually I did, just not in summoning you.” She said and hissed in pain as the chains around her arms tightened. You felt pity for these two women the Anti-fairy tormented and tried to think of a way to get AC off their backs.

“Who did you summon?” Anti-Cosmo hissed. “NAME THEM.”

“Ah…Anti-Binky…” she whimpered.

You almost laughed at the silly sounding name, but seeing the rage in Anti-Cosmo’s face got ride of that feeling. “He told you how to imprison me?!” he asked angrily.

“H-he said to pick a Sunday the 7th…that you’d be the most weak on that day, and to be sure I was your only target…to have the safe lined with butterfly netting and to keep your wand far from you…”

You started making mental notes of said weaknesses just in case. Especially with the plan you decided to put in place to save these two.

“I see…” Anti-Cosmo said before stepping back. “Well then, I know who to go for next. That little boil have been seeking my crown for centuries.” He huffed. The walls of the safe around the younger woman began to close in around her again.

You decided to start your plan.

[insidious-intent]

13. “I’ll take you home.” - Malex :)

I apologize if you were looking for sexc times, this wanted to be written! 

He finds the piece deep in the middle of the desert, pulled by its faint call. It didn’t look like anything special, just another piece of the glimmering alien spaceship, he knows it well. A deep placed certainty that grew in his bones drives him, and he is in the truck driving towards Carlsbad just as the day dawns. He might be a sailor, following the trail of a siren call, a dim instinct that keeps him moving deeper into the caverns. What he finds is a gentle bio-luminescence, making puddles of water glow pink and purple. It is the largest piece of the ship he has found so far, edges soft and curved and forever glowing. It takes him two hours to move the piece, careful of its size and worried about damaging it in the cavern, securing it the best way he can in the truck bed. 

He grins in satisfaction as the piece rests on the floor of his bunker, half a day after he started, still glimmering softly in the darkness. After the setbacks of the past year, having a workable piece of the ship feels like a great leap forward, and he’s never been one to look gift horses in the mouth. It takes hours to revisit the ship, place all the pieces back in sequence, even though it feels like minutes, but the remaining pieces of the console hum back to life. 

He approaches with the new piece, slowly and carefully. But all that worry was for nothing, because the ship accepts the piece as if it were a prodigal child, immediately slotting into place. The resulting hum is like a long forgotten melody, finally slotting back in his head. He thinks he cries, or at least tears up at the success, at the return of a piece of his home. He reaches out with reverent hands, wanting to feel the thrum of the console under his skin. The blinding light makes him close his eyes for a moment, a deep gong of reminder, of home, going off in his head. 

With the thrum of the ship under his hands, Michael Guerin opens his eyes, and sees the universe. 

***

The news calls it “an unfortunate consequence of climate change,” and the reports spread far and wide. Isobel knows none of it is true, the news is full of convenient lies people have come up with to justify the natural phenomena ravaging the state of New Mexico, and rapidly expanding outward. Four days ago she was woken up in the middle of the night by a scream she’ll likely never forget. It took her four days without sleep or food to figure out how to stop the voices in her head. Max is almost comatose next to her, his telepathic powers small and fragile in the face of the threat. 

Only on the fifth day was she able to open her eyes again, the silence leaving her ears ringing as if she stepped out of Planet 7. But she knew what to do by then, and she knew how to stop it. She thanks her past self for holding onto things she was given while the efforts to bring Max back were going on, and picks up the satellite phone. She has a few calls to make and she knows where to start - Kyle Valenti. 

She is done within the hour, and after making sure that Max is only sleeping, not in a coma, heads outside. There was a very high risk in stepping outside, the earthquakes and mini tornadoes had destroyed almost everything within a hundred mile radius. But no one knows that the eye of the storm lies right in Roswell, so Isobel climbs into her BMW and makes her way over to Sanders Auto & Junkyard. 

The air thickens around her as she approaches the junkyard, a vacuum seal pressure on her senses, pushing her away. Isobel knows that if she were human, she would have buckled under the atmospheric pressure by now, her alien physiology the only thing keeping her intact. The air around the junkyard is not air anymore, moving like water around her, shimmering hues of pinks and yellows and purples. Her car gives out right at the edge of the junkyard, the engine crumpling and smoking from the pressure. Isobel gets out and starts walking, reaching the bunker after what feels like hours. The cover is hanging open, and Isobel thanks whoever is listening for the ladder still being there. 

She sees her brother in the middle of the bunker, a glowing star in the dark. He is hovering a couple feet above the ground, but his hands are holding onto the ship that even now thrums like a hydraulic engine. Isobel knows she has only one chance, and she has had five days to make up her mind on what part she wants to play in her brother’s rescue. With a single determined breath, Isobel moves forward.

Removing Michael’s hands from the ship whites out the entire bunker, and knocks her unconscious for a whole minute. When she comes to, she can feel the earth finally settling, no more tremors attacking it. The air also feels normal again, and Isobel takes a deep and long breath. At least the world is safe now. 

When she finally makes herself stand, the ship has lost the deep thrum, but is still glowing, and unfortunately so is Michael. 

“Michael?” she asks, knowing she may not get an answer.

“Princess,” the legion of voices inside Michael responds, “we are honored to meet you.”

Isobel chokes back her tears, she doesn’t have time to panic. “Let Michael go,” she says, keeping her voice as steady as she can. 

“He is not a prisoner.”

Isobel tries to not let her frustration show. “You can’t have him, he is not yours to keep.”

The legion laughs, the voice cracking every light bulb in the bunker. 

But Isobel isn’t worried, because she always has a plan.

***

Michael’s having an incredible day. The ship is complete and running and both Max and Isobel are almost ready. The skies look clear, the air is crisp and refreshing. All around him, Michael’s friends and family join in to see them one last time. The mood is festive, Max and Isobel and him easily mingling, getting hugs and kisses, no one is unhappy that the three of them finally get to go home. 

Liz and Rosa are at the door, holding a big wrapped box out to Michael. Liz hugs him tight, but Rosa also adds a punch to his shoulder after her hug. “This is expensive booze, so hold onto it!” she says, and Michael only laughs. Rosa is a good friend. 

He knows something is missing, but can’t tell what. He looks around him, at all the smiling faces, loud cheerful yells and shouts of his friends and family. He has everything, right? 

“Guerin,” a voice says behind him, and Michael freezes. The voice is familiar, he knows it, but he can’t remember. He should remember. 

He turns slowly, and looks into the face of the man he loves. Has always loved. Will forever love. 

“Alex.”

“Hi Guerin,” Alex says. 

Michael grins, “Alex you made it!”

Michael smiles and walks towards Alex, ignoring the way the party has gone quiet and still, and he can’t hear his ship anymore. 

Michael’s mom steps in front of him, stopping him from reaching Alex. “Michael, stop. You need to go home.”

Michael looks at his mom and smiles reassuringly. “I’m going home, mom. Alex is my home.”

His mother is frowning now, “no Michael. You don’t belong here.” She starts tugging at his arm, trying to pull him back towards the ship. 

Alex stands there, looking at Michael, eyes full of love. “Michael, come back to me.”

Michael throws off his mother’s arm and walks forward again, smiling at seeing the love of his life in front of him. “Alex,” he whispers, heart full of joy. 

Alex smiles and holds his arms open, “Come on Guerin,” he whispers, that soft smile still on his face. “I’ll take you home,” he says before kissing Michael.

***

In the bunker, Isobel cries. Alex is on the ground, still holding Michael, his lips still on Michael’s. 

Michael finally opens his eyes.

Send me a prompt!

[skyview-temple-spring]

Title: Damage Control (originally called by the prompt title Please...) Rating: T Pairings: Ghiralink and Ghiralink only (though past Zelink is fine too) Warnings: Implied Character Death, Mild Body Horror Summary: Canon Divergent Dark! Link AU (but not really)

"It's just a precaution. A safety measure. I'm sure you understand."

He does. He agreed, after all. It was a condition of joining, a fail safe to make sure he wasn't a double agent. (Even if he is. If he can go through with it.) Ghirahim's idea, one he had been lucky to convince the demon king would work. Link nods slowly, stiffly, back straight and hands folded in his lap. He's not going to back out now.

"Besides, think of the power you'll have! Near immortality, invulnerability, increased strength, and you don't even have to lift a finger!"

It is very appealing. He wants it, really. He's still scared, of course, still terrified of his own actions and unsure if he's made the right choice.

"It won't hurt too much. I promise. You'll survive. It will be wonderful." Ghirahim steps closer, taking Link's head into his hands. Link doesn't flinch, doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge Ghirahim's presence, even when a kiss is pressed to his head.

You were late, hero.

You were late, and you failed her.

In the end, it was the best decision for everyone. Zelda was no longer counting on him, after all. He wasn't giving them false hope. This way, maybe he had a chance at some sort of damage control.

Ghirahim sighs, brushing his fingers through Link's hair. Another reassurance is on the tip of his tongue, Link can tell, but his motions still. Looking back to the door, he rests a hand on Link's shoulder.

"It's time."

His heart couldn't be beating faster, his nerves strung any tighter. Not that it will be a problem soon. Ghirahim takes his hand, guides him to his feet, and kisses him again.

"I'm so proud of you, darling. You won't regret this."

It's as if he's outside of his body as they make their way down the hall. It's not him anymore, not Link as Ghirahim guides the ex-hero through the castle, twisting down, down, down dark hallways until the soft light of the moon is no more, the torches snuffed out as the demon passes by. Link shivers in the cold, and reminds himself that won't be a problem anymore, either.

"We're here, dear."

Ghirahim pushes open a foreboding door, the intricate patterns springing to life with a red glow. It means nothing to him.

Link walks ahead, as if marching towards his own death, and for all intents and purposes, he is. The boy from Skyloft is long gone. The hero is no more.

The chamber is dark. Demise is waiting for them, new sword in hand. Distantly, Link recognizes that as his future form, the vessel his soul will be trapped in for the rest of eternity.

Ghirahim is behind him again, coaxing him forward towards a stone table, glowing with the same red runes as the door. The whole room is alight with this magic, shadows dancing across the ceiling and walls as the glow flickers like flames.

The sword spirit's hands are light on his sides. Ghirahim had been unusually kind to him, after he came, broken down, to his doorstep, begging for a way out. He had been gentle, soft, even, caring for him as he sobbed and shook, pleading and admitting he was in over his head. He had kissed him for the first time that night, sealing the pact and trapping Link in his web.

He didn't mind Link's distant attitude after, long bouts of motionless silence followed by a hunger for attention, needy pleas and cries for affection. He gave it willingly in return for roughness, bruises and cuts and marks that Link didn't mind.

It was his idea, in the end. To become a sword spirit.

Ghirahim helped forge the sword, choosing from blades and hilts like they were wedding dresses not weapons, a special occasion he should be happy about, and it had to be perfect.

But for Link, this was an execution. A sacrifice. A rebirth.

Ghirahim presses another kiss to his neck before beginning his ceremonial spiel, presenting Link as a willing participant to his master, bowing and groveling and flattering the demon king with all he had, trying to keep him appeased and calm. Demise couldn't care less.

Link waits patiently for Ghirahim to finish, absently wondering if he will pass out early and not have to feel it for long. He never had a high pain tolerance.

Finishing his monologue, Ghirahim catches Link off guard with a push forward, sending him scrambling to catch his balance. The spirit's finger's slip underneath Link's shirt, snapping him from his dissociative thoughts.

"Hey! You never said anything about...." Link gasps, tucking his arms in on himself until Ghirahim swats them away.

"You'll be stuck with them forever if you don't take them off—stop fussing."

He protests still, whatever is left of his “unbreakable spirit” choosing to rear its head now, of all times. Ghirahim sighs, and lets go.

"You don't want to end up like your spirit, do you?"

Honestly, he wouldn't mind. No emotions means no emotional pain, no anger or sadness or frustration. It’s a possibility he will accept. 

Link mutters his indifference, quivering as Ghirahim scoops him into his arms.

"It'll be over before you know it. Stop struggling." Ghirahim coos, laying Link down on the cold slab. His hand drifts over his chest, where in a few hours time, a gem will appear.

Link's breathing speeds up. He is feeling the onset of panic, having second thoughts that maybe this isn't the only option, maybe he should have tried to fight harder. Words he doesn't understand invade his ears, motions that are a blur to his frantic mind pass by, his heart is pounding in his chest, blood roaring in his ears as black spots dance across his vision and—

Everything stops. All he focuses on is the blade held high above his chest, pointed down and ready to strike.

"Wait—!"

It's too late. Link screams as it plunges into the place a gem will form, excruciating pain spreading from the wound, burning away at his skin, magic eating at his core and changing his very being. It hurts, it hurts more than he can take, it is worse than death.

"Stop! Please!" He cries, but the blade only seems to burrow in farther. Ghirahim is by his side, stroking his hair as he sobs and writhes in the torture, whispering praises and reassurances.

"You're doing so well, Link. Let it happen. Let it go. It's almost over. I can already see your core forming, isn't that wonderful? It's almost done. You made the right choice."

"No! Get it out! Hylia, I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry, please, goddess, forgive me!"

He cries helplessly, knowing he will be ignored. He had agreed to this. He told them to do it. He can't stop now.

Link pants harder, struggling for each breath. It feels as if his lungs are solidifying, everything in his body shutting down and stopping, ceasing functions he needs to live. His blood is turning to molten lava, his eyes are glazing over.

As it goes on, he feels more numb. Maybe he is dying, maybe this is the end. This is his punishment. Maybe it won't work, maybe he'll wake up in his bed on Skyloft and it will have all been a nightmare. But as his limbs grow heavy, his eyes feel hard to keep open, and his mind grows empty with a desire to serve, Link focuses on Ghirahim's smile, his whispers meant only for him.

By the time it is over, Link can't feel anything. He can't move, frozen in place, nearly blind and deaf. He feels nothing, not even his heart beating.

The sword is drawn from his chest, clean of any blood.

"No more...."

And no more comes.

---

When he awakes, he is still on the stone slab, but the room is brighter. Fire light illuminates the dark figure at his side, kneeling with head resting on crossed arms upon the table.

"Oh! You're awake!" The demon snaps up, grabbing onto his hand. Link turns his head to see black against green, a shimmering diamond pattern synching up with each other's hand.

"See? It wasn't that bad, was it?"

It had been. It had been so much worse than he imagined, but it was over now, at least. Shifting his head back, he lets it rest on the stone, becoming aware of how everything felt.

He can still feel, emotionally and physically, which is a surprise. He is stiff, like rock, and his chest is sore. It's a different kind of feeling, not one he is used to, and he feels as if he is lacking something, desperate for a missing piece.

Ghirahim smiles down at him, gently stroking his hand. His gaze washes over his body, something akin to pity filling his empty white eyes.

"You're really very pretty, Link—an emerald sort of green. Green and gold, and your gem is gorgeous. Like the sky."

Link only nods. It hurts. Everything hurts. He makes to sit up, but cries out as his limbs crack, creaking like a rusty gear. Ghirahim rushes to press a hand behind his back, helping as Link swings his legs off the table.

"Oh, careful, careful, not so fast! It's difficult to get used to, yes, but before you know it you'll understand. And this!" Ghirahim brushes over his new gem, Link wincing at the touch, "You'll love this! It's so sensitive, wait until our Master first pulls your sword from it, or it heals so that soon," He smiles down at Link, taking his befuddled face into his hands. “soon enough, I'll teach you to shift forms. Not now, don't even try now. You need rest, to heal."

Ghirahim helps him stand, Link wobbly as he holds on for dear life. The other spirit laughs gently at his struggle, sighing when Link glances forlornly towards the exit.

"I expect you're feeling lost. I was too when I woke up, but Master was there for me. Unfortunately, he had matters to attend to, but I can take you to him now. The ache will dull, eventually, and you'll be able to stray further with only a weak bond, but for now, you yearn, don't you? You simply ache with the need to serve? To be used?"

Link nods, finally putting words to what he feels. It is like... like he has a purpose, one purpose, one goal now. All that matters is finding it.

That, and the spirit he is clinging to. Ghirahim seems to feel the same.

"Come now," The sword coos, taking Link's arm with his own, "It's time I introduce you to our Master."

[teacupfulofstarshine]

nothing’s quite as sweet as you

summary: in a world where soulmates exist, patton has waited his whole life to meet the person the universe has designated as his. he can't wait to make their soul recipe together and feed each other the first bite. but in the meantime, he'll settle for running his bakery and hoping. 

(OR: an absurdly fluffy royality soulmate!au)

a/n: for @notveryglittery​, the queen of all things royality

cw: mild angst mention

wordcount: 3.9k 

read it on ao3! 

“Patton? Sweetheart, what are you doing?” 

Diana leans into the bathroom to see one of her five-year-old twins with his sleeves rolled up, soaking the front of his overalls as he tries to scrub his arm with a sopping wet washcloth. She quickly scoops him up, wringing the washcloth out and draping it over the side of the tub. 

“Did you get paint on you again, silly?” She lifts his arm to see what he’d been scrubbing at, revealing a red, rubbed-raw forearm with bright blue lettering on it. “I don’t understand, Patty-cake, did you spill something on your soulmark?” 

“I don’t wanna soulmark anymore, Mama,” Patton pouts, trying to scratch at his arm. Diana quickly catches his hand in one of hers, confused.

“Why not, baby?”

“Vee doesn’ have one! He doesn’ have a soulmate, an’ I don’ wanna soulmate if he doesn’t have one!” Patton’s eyes are watering behind his big, round glasses, and Diana smiles softly. She brushes his curly bangs aside to kiss his forehead. 

“Why don’t you go and put on some dry clothes, baby, and then meet me, Virgil, and Mother in the living room, okay?” 

“Okay . . .” 

When Patton comes back, changed into a flowy skirt to accompany his Disney t-shirt, Diana has Virgil pulled onto her lap and Marie. Patton scrambles up onto the couch and pats Marie’s thighs. “Can I sit in your lap, Mother?” 

“Of course, darling.” She wraps her arms around his middle and hugs him close. “Your Mama tells me that you were trying to scrub your soulmark off in the bathroom today.” 

“I don’ wanna have a soulmate if Virge doesn’ have a soulmate! He’s my twin, we have to be the same!” 

Marie, too, begins to laughs. “Mother, you can’t laugh! Virge doesn’ have a soulmate!” Patton cries, clearly distressed. “So I can’t have one either, I don’t wan’ him to be alone!” 

“I am not laughing at you, my baby. You are admirable for wanting Virgil to not be alone. I am laughing because despite your admirable sentiments, you are mistaken. Virgil does have a soulmate.” 

“What?” 

Virgil pushes up his hoodie sleeve in confusion, looking at his forearms. “But I don’ have a mark . . .”

“I did not have a mark either, when I was born,” Marie tells him. “Your Mama did, but I did not. My arm was plain and bare, like yours is.” 

Patton pulls her arms away from his waist, flipping her left arm so that it’s palm-up. There’s a recipe written on her forearm, in soft pink script that complements his Mama’s lavender soulmark. “But you have a soulmark now, Mother! And you and Mama are soulmates, right?” 

“You are correct, little cake. Do you wonder why that is?” 

“Yes, Mother!” 

“In every soulmate pair - and it is different if there are more than two soulmates, but if there is a pair - there is one born marked and one born unmarked. When you touch your soulmate’s skin for the first time, the mark will glow, and the unmarked will receive their recipe.” 

“Think about it this way, Pat - if everyone was born with a soulmark, you’d have to hold your arm up to everyone you met to try and read and see if the recipe matched! That would take so long!” Diana says.

“Yeah . . . so Virgil has a soulmate?” 

“He does,” Marie tells them. “When you first approach your soulmate, there will be a smell that only the two of you can smell. It is the smell of your recipe! Once you have both halves of your recipe, you will make it together, and you will feed each other the first bite, and then you will be together forever.” 

Patton grins brightly at his twin. “We both get soulmates, Virge! I’m so happy! I woulda said no to my soulmate if you didn’t have one, but I think I still woulda been sad not to have one. But you’re my brother!” 

Virgil smiles back, a little more shy but no less bright. “Okay!” 

*~*~*~*~* 

“Have you found them yet?” Patton asks eagerly, bouncing next to his twin. Virgil is rummaging through his locker, which he’s somehow already managed to turn into a disaster. Patton’s locker, right next to his, is decorated with pictures of the two of them and their moms and puppies and all kinds of other things. 

“No, Patty, but it’s only the first day,” Virgil says softly, shoving a sketchbook into his backpack. “We have a lot of time to find them.”

“I know, but Mama and Mother met in high school, and wouldn’t it be so cool if we could find ours in high school too? I just wanna know who they are! I wanna hold their hand and give them kisses and make our recipe together and and and -”

“I know, Pat,” Virgil laughs, slamming his locker shut. “Come on, we’re gonna be late for our first ever art class.” 

Patton grins when he walks into the room, inhaling the scent of acrylic paint and glue and sharpies. He puts his messenger bag down on one of the stools, but when he turns to see Virgil, he realizes that his twin is standing in the doorway, frozen. He hurries over, sundress swishing around his knees. “Vee? Are you okay? What’s wrong?” 

Virgil’s eyes are saucer-wide, and his hands are gripping the straps of his backpack. “Pat, can - do you - can you smell that?” 

“The art room smell?” 

“No,” Virgil says, and there’s a tiny smile creeping onto his face. “It - it smells sweet, Pat. Can you smell that?” 

Patton breaks into a bright, sunshiney grin. “No, Vee, I sure as sugar cannot!” He bounces on his toes, sneakers squeaking against the linoleum. “You found your soulmate!” 

“I haven’t found them yet , Patton, they could still be out in the hallway,” Virgil says, even though he’s still smiling. He follows Patton into the room, and as the rest of the class files in and the bell rings and the door closes behind the last girl, his eyes widen. Patton’s grin gets even wider.

“You still smell it, don’t you?” he whispers. Virgil nods, and Patton can barely stay sitting on the stool. The teacher hasn’t entered the classroom yet, so Patton eagerly sprints to the front of the room. “What are you doing?” Virgil hisses, gripping the table. Patton winks at him before knocking his fist on the chalkboard and getting everyone in the classroom to look at him. 

“May I have your attention please!” 

Virgil pulls his hood up and over his head in an attempt to hide his face, cheeks red, and Patton does feel a little bad about embarrassing his twin. At the same time, however, he knows Virgil, and he knows that he won’t say anything about his soulmate’s presence in the class. He will , however, be super anxious about who they are and what they think of him until he meets them, and Patton’s always been the extrovert between the two of them. 

“My name’s Patton, and that’s my twin brother Virgil! Can anyone else in this class smell baked goods right now? Because he can!” 

“Patton, I swear to God, stop talking,” Virgil hisses. Patton rocks back and forth, grinning, as he scans back and forth among the people in the class. The silence stretches on for almost thirty seconds, but before either twin can become fully disheartened, someone stands up. 

“I, too, can perceive a distinctly saccharine aroma in the air,” he says quietly. Patton smiles, confused, before Virgil is standing up and carefully tugging his hood down, rearranging his mussed hair as he shuffles up to stand next to Patton. 

“He smells it too, Pat, he smells it too he smells it too oh my God,” he mutters. 

The boy approaches them, wearing black pants and a black belt and a black polo shirt with a dark blue tie. He has black shoes and glasses with square black frames that look almost exactly like the ones Patton used to wear before he broke them. Patton’s eyes are immediately drawn to the flowing, midnight-blue script on his left forearm, and he hears his brother inhale sharply next to him. 

“Logan Delaney,” the boy says crisply, holding out his hand so that they can all see his soulmark. “It’s a pleasure.” He looks so serious, but when his eyes land on Virgil they soften a little. 

“V - Virgil Alexander,” Virgil stammers, rolling his sleeve up and reaching for Logan’s hand. “Likewise.” 

The second their hands make contact, Logan’s soulmark begins to glow. His eyes widen, and a look of almost childlike wonder crosses his face as a ribbon of bright blue light spirals around his arm and hand, turning purple as it winds around Virgil’s wrist. He gasps as the light begins to write across his arm, leaving shimmering lavender script across his forearm as his soulmark appears. 

“Hello, Virgil,” Logan says. He carefully turns his hand so that he’s not shaking Virgil’s hand anymore but holding it, studying the inside of his forearm as he scans over the recipe. “I know I have said this before, but it truly is a pleasure to meet you.” 

Virgil blinks in shock before curling his fingers around Logan’s, rubbing the back of his neck as he offers a soft, tentative smile. “It’s really good to meet you, too.” 

*~*~*~*~*

Logan ends up accompanying them home that day, fingers laced with Virgil’s the whole time. Patton sits on the kitchen counter and teases his twin while he and Logan work together to make their recipe, thumbprint cookies featuring Logan’s favorite jam and Virgil’s favorite shortbread.

“It really is a perfect recipe for you two,” Patton sighs, reaching out to ruffle Virgil’s hair. “I can’t wait until I meet my soulmate! What do you think our recipe will be? Will it taste good? Oh, I can’t wait, I can’t wait -” 

“I’m sure your soulmate will be perfect for you, Pat. They’ll be just as sappy as you, and I bet your recipe will be so sweet no one else could possibly eat it. You two will share one massive sweet tooth.” 

“You think so?” 

“Course, Pat. Who wouldn’t be thrilled to have you as a soulmate?” 

Logan carefully breaks a cookie in half and offers it to Virgil. He smiles, slow and hesitant, and Virgil holds the cookie carefully. They lift the cookies up, reaching for each other; Logan takes a bite of Virgil’s half, and Virgil takes a bite of Logan’s half. When they open their eyes again, Logan reaches up and carefully brushes a crumb off Virgil’s face with his thumb, letting his hand cradle Virgil’s cheek. 

Patton carefully ducks into the living room so that they can kiss in private, happy chills running down his spine. He can’t wait until he meets his soulmate.

*~*~*~*~*

SEVERAL YEARS LATER

*~*~*~*~*

Patton wheezes and coughs as a poof of flour rises up from the dough he’d unwisely punched. “I have got to stop doing that,” he gags, thumping his chest repeatedly. The door swings open, and Roman sticks his head through in concern. 

“You alright, Pat?” 

“Yep!” Patton grabs for his water bottle and chugs down half of it in one go. “Just got a little side tracked by the flour power, you know what I mean?” Roman blinks at him before laughing, sweeping his coppery curls off his forehead. Patton inhales and the air smells saccharine sweet and perfect - but then, it always smells like this here. He owns and works in a bakery, after all. Still, he allows himself a moment to stare dreamily at his front counter employee, wondering what it would be like if this smell meant something more, if Roman were actually his soulmate. 

By the time Roman opens his eyes again, Patton has returned to kneading the brioche dough in front of him. “I know brioche sells well, but it’s such a pain to make. It takes two whole days! It has to refrigerate overnight, and it’s stiff as a rock in the morning. I just don’t have the muscles for this.” 

“Not to brag or anything, but I do,” Roman says, casually curling one arm up and revealing a very obvious set of arm muscles. Patton is fairly sure he feels his soul leave his body and ascend to a new level of homosexuality. “If you wanted help, I -”

The bell above the door rings, and Roman grins. “Talk about this later?” 

Patton nods, and Roman heads back out into the bakery proper. Patton exhales, pulling his sleeve up to study the recipe written across his forearm. He thought he would have met his soulmate by now, but it seems the universe has other plans for him. He refuses to give up hope on his soulmate, but he does wish they’d hurry up a little and fall into his path. 

Roman pokes his head in again. “Patton, is the brioche done? The next group of soulmates is here.” Patton studies the bread dough in front of him, plops it back into a bowl, and covers it with saran wrap. 

“It’s not done, but it’ll keep a little longer while I teach the class.” He pushes the dough back into the freezer and dusts off the flour coating his hands. “Can you handle the shop while I’m working?” 

“I know where to find you if anything happens, but I think I got it!” 

Patton steps into the shop proper. His eyes scan across the happy customers lounging in the cafe portion of his shop; the small group of new soulmates clustered near the doors to the kitchen, all chattering nervously; the display case of pastries, stocked full enough that Roman will be okay while he’s teaching this class; Roman himself, lounging across the front counter and flirting with a girl about their age, hair died in a gradient of blue-pink-purple. 

He turns away and focuses on greeting the small group of soulmates waiting next to the doors of the communal kitchen. “Hello there! I take it you’re all here for the First Recipe class?” They nod, and Patton takes a moment to assess the group. Two young women, holding hands and blushing shyly; two young men, both fidgeting awkwardly as they offer one another fleeting glances and smiles; a rare soulmate throuple, a young woman sandwiched between two people who keep leaning in to make her giggle and blush. 

“Excellent! Did you all bring a printout of your complete assembled recipe, as the signups requested? It makes it easier in the long run to cook!” They hand over their recipes, and Patton scans them quickly. “Most of these are one-day things, so you shouldn’t need to wait for anything to set overnight! If plans change, though, we can always rearrange a schedule. Come right this way!” 

The communal kitchen is smaller than the industrial kitchen where Patton makes the bakery’s products. He’d designed it to be homier, more like walking into the sunlit kitchen of a small cottage than a large company. There are a few stations, wide enough for up to four people at a time, and a well-stocked refrigerator and pantry. The soulmates split themselves up around the kitchen; Patton passes out aprons and goes over a few basics about safety and where things are located before letting them free about the kitchen. 

There are a few near mishaps; it’s clear some of them have never worked with a gas stove before, the knives are incredibly sharp, and some of the recipes call for more advanced techniques. Still, by the end of it, there are three completed recipes on the counters: one no-bake cheesecake, one batch of pâte à choux profiteroles, and one batch of orange-blueberry scones. 

“Good job!” Patton grins. He watches the soulmates feed each other their dishes, laughing when one of the throuple soulmates dabs a bit of profiterole cream filling onto her partner’s nose and kisses it off while they blush and stammer. Once they’ve all completed their first bites, they share their recipes with each other and Patton. 

“You all did a great job! I’m so proud of you, these taste amazing!” 

He grins and pops a profiterole into his mouth. The sweet taste is almost enough to cover up the way his heart twinges watching all these happy young people with their soulmates. 

*~*~*~*~*

“Patton, look out!” 

Patton twists around to see Roman rushing towards him, but he’s not fast enough to stop Patton’s foot from sliding on the coffee spill. He pitches backwards, windmilling frantically in an attempt to keep himself upright, and then - 

Suddenly, an arm curls around his waist, a hand grabs his hand, and Roman is dipping him right above the ground. Patton’s eyes are wide; he’s never been this close to Roman before, and he’s never notices the little flecks of yellow and gold scattered in Roman’s eyes, and his arms come up to loop around Roman’s neck. 

Electricity sparks through Patton’s whole body. Judging by the way Roman’s eyes blow wide as saucers, he feels it too. Patton doesn’t want to stop looking at Roman as he pulls him up to his feet, carefully sliding his hands down Roman’s arms to hold his hands. His arm begins to glow brightly - his soulmark begins to glow brightly. Ribbons of blue light spiral around Roman, who gasps as flowing, elegant red script appears on his forearm. 

“It’s you?” Patton whispers. 

“It’s you,” Roman laughs. He pulls Patton into the back, into the kitchen, and before Patton can speak Roman’s pulled him into his arms and pushed his face into Patton’s hair. “Oh, thank all the Fates, it’s you, it’s you!” 

“You . . . you wanted it to be me?” 

“I did. I thought it was you who didn’t want it to be me because you didn’t react when you smelled the sweet smell in the air. I was so excited because I thought it was you, and then you didn’t -” 

“That - wh -” Patton blinks. “The sweet smell around you was because we’re soulmates?” 

“You didn’t realize?” 

“We work in a bakery, Roman! I’m a baker! Everything smells sweet all the time!” Roman laughs, leaning in to press his forehead against Patton’s. “But - but I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you so bad, Roman, every time I looked at you I could barely control how I felt but I didn’t think we could be -”

“I know, but we are. Think about it, Pat!” Before Patton can gather the courage to kiss him, the bell over the door rings. Roman sighs softly. “I should go handle that.” 

“Do - do you have anywhere you have to be tonight? After work?” 

“Nowhere except by your side.” Patton feels his entire face flaming up as Roman smirks and tucks Patton’s hair behind his ear. His mouth opens and closes as he tries to regain control of his voice.

“After we close down, we should go into the other kitchen and make our recipe together.” Patton’s heart swells like a balloon when he says “our recipe,” grinning like an idiot. Roman rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, grinning happily, and Patton pulls one hand away from Roman’s chest to flap it in joy. 

“Absolutely.” Before Patton can respond, Roman leans in and kisses his forehead before disappearing back into the front. Patton giggles to himself, spinning around in a quick circle and flapping his hands in joy. He stims gleefully to himself with his hands for almost ten minutes before he returns to the pastry he’s rolling out, rocking on his toes the entire time. 

*~*~*~*~*

pattoncake baker man: VEE!!! u’ll nvr guess what just happened!!!!

pattoncake baker man: i found my soulmate!!!! 

pattoncake baker man: it’s roman!!! i can’t believe i never noticed the smell!!! 

shadow man: pat 

shadow man: pat i love you but like

shadow man: you work in a GOD DAMN BAKERY

shadow man: tf did you expect???

shadow man: (but srsly, i’m happy for you bro <3)

*~*~*~*~*

Roman tilts his head, frowning at the page as Patton finishes writing down their recipe. “What . . . is it? What does our recipe make?” Patton scans through the steps, putting the pieces together in his mind and trying to assemble a complete puzzle. 

“It looks like it’s some kind of custard tart. Shortcrust pastry, chocolate and cinnamon custard filling, grated chocolate on top . . . it sounds amazing.” 

“You’re the baker here, so you’ll have to take the lead. I’m . . . not great at this kinda stuff.” Roman rubs the back of his neck. Patton reaches up and gently takes Roman’s hand, rubbing his thumb back and forth in a soothing stim. 

“Hey. Is that negative self-talk I hear, mister? None of that! You think everyone in the world is a great baker when they make their soulmate recipe? No! All that matters is that we make it together.” Roman looks up, smiling, and Patton gathers all of his courage to lean forward and smooch Roman’s cheek. Roman gasps, rearing back, and for a split second Patton thinks he’s moved too fast. 

Roman lurches forward, just as quickly, and then back and forth and oh goodness he’s full-on rocking and Patton must have made him so happy! Patton bounces up and down, rapidly flapping his own hands, and for a moment they just stim together in the kitchen. 

It’s another five minutes before they actually start making the recipe, but neither of them mind too much.

*~*~*~*~*

Patton’s never worked with Roman in the kitchen before, but they flow together perfectly. They assemble the shortcrust together, and Roman puts his arm muscles to work kneading the pastry. Patton lets himself openly stare at the way Roman’s arms flex and bulge, reaching out and patting them with a high-pitched giggle. 

“Am I doing it wrong?”

“Nope! Your arms are just . . . really nice.” Roman blushes before lifting one arm and deliberately flexing. Patton squeals and turns his attention back to the custard. They blind-bake the pastry, fill it with custard, and carefully grate chocolate while the tart bakes. It comes out shiny and glossy and perfect, and Patton carefully lays a paper stencil over the top of the custard tart while Roman shakes the grated white chocolate over it to from a swirling pattern. 

“It looks beautiful,” Roman says. “But you look more beautiful.” Patton flaps a little in joy as Roman carefully picks up the kitchen knife and cuts a slice out of the tart. He hands Patton a fork and takes one himself, scooping up a piece. 

“It cuts beautifully, too.” Patton looks at Roman, heart swelling, and offers him the forkful of tart. Roman does the same; Patton closes his eyes and opens his mouth. The tart hits his tongue and he gasps as chocolate and spice and silky-smooth custard bloom across his tongue. Roman makes a muffled, pleasured noise. 

“It’s so good!” he gasps. Patton swallows his mouthful of chocolate and looks at Roman. “It’s sweet and spicy and smooth and - and I - Patton, it’s wonderful.”

“You’re wonderful.” Roman’s fork clatters to the counter as he reaches forward and cups Patton’s cheeks, pulling him in and pressing their mouths together. Patton squeaks and gasps and melts into Roman’s arms, hugging him tightly. Roman tastes like the custard they just ate, but he also tastes like sunshine and light and warmth. Patton’s been baking since he was small, but nothing tastes quite as sweet as Roman. 

[crash-cinematic-universe]

Let the Patter of the Rain Become the Rhythm

pairing: peter maximoff/reader

summary/request:  hi! can i request running through a summer thunderstorm at midnight with peter and just singing and dancing together and blasting music through a speaker in the empty streets? thank you so much! -🥕

warnings: none-- it’s pretty cute, though

notes: 1.5k words and also its fuckin CUTE. I changed it up juuuuust a teenie tiny bit

taglist: @creator-appreciator

            Peter Maximoff was never an optimist; his spirits are brought down easily, and although he’s persistent, he can give up hope quickly. He’s not proud of his pessimism, in fact, he actively tries to change-- he doesn’t exactly want to assume the worst of people. Unfortunately, it’s not exactly easy to switch his entire mindset, especially after so long. However, there are times where Peter outright refuses to let something ruin his mood-- this was one of those times.

            Peter’s fingers were laced with yours as you walked down the sidewalk, the bright moon beaming down on the two of you and making Peter’s hair shimmer like, well, silver. His dark eyes darted over to glance at you every now and then, his deep irises glittering with admiration. Peter felt as if he were on top of the world, his heart swelling with every brush of your skin against his. 

            The two of you shouldn’t be out this late-- you’re both aware of this, but neither of you care. You almost never get alone time in the mansion, especially during the day. So, you decided that your romantic escapades would have to take place in the dead of the night. As odd as it sounds, midnight adventures spent wandering through empty towns or late-night movie showings are more wonderful than anyone could really vocalize. Not to mention that Peter almost glows in the moonlight.

            However, there were downsides to going out so late at night-- you two were almost always tired and constantly had to sneak around whenever you wanted to leave the mansion. Everything was always closed at night which limited your options and gave you almost no protection from the weather; when Peter noticed storm clouds rolling in as you walked, he felt his stomach drop.

            “It’s gonna start raining soon,” he sighs, a flash of disappointment crossing his eyes. “We should probably head back,” Peter had been looking forward to tonight-- he’d been especially busy with the X-Men and you were drowning in essays that needed grading, tonight was supposed to be carefree. You’d only been out for about 20 minutes by the time the clouds appeared, and Peter dreaded going back to the mansion so soon. The young man’s spirit was crushed by the weather and he was prepared to let the night be ruined by the rain. You seemed to have other plans, though.

            “Peter, I don’t know about you, but I’m not gonna let a little rain spoil the evening,” You stared up at the sky and watched as the moon was blocked out by large clouds, plunging both you and Peter into a deeper darkness. “If you really wanna go back, we can, but--”

            “No!” Peter cuts you off, eagerness in his voice. A dark blush settles on his cheeks as he stutters. “I mean, uh-- no, I think I’m okay staying here with you.” Peter’s heart fluttered as you grinned at him, your smile seemingly brightening up the night. You pulled him close as the first few raindrops fell, the gentle pattering becoming louder and stronger as the seconds passed. Peter stood stiffly, his arms stuck at his sides as the rain came down on him. He felt awkward and out of place, his clothes soon becoming much heavier than before. None of that really mattered to Peter, though, because something else had caught his attention.

            Peter couldn’t help but stare as you spun around in the rain, the downpour soaking you to the bone. You didn’t seem to mind, though. A large smile was stuck on your face, your melodic giggle cutting through the patter of the rain as you reached out for Peter once again.

            “C’mon, Silver,” You beamed. “Dance with me.” His heart skipped as your fingers laced with his and pulled him close. He watched intently as he twirled you around, his hair sticking to his forehead as the rain continued to fall. The sight of you grinning in the rain made him weak in the knees, his entire body reacting to your affection and antics. Peter had never felt something like this before-- he’d never felt something so strong and genuine and real. He wanted nothing more than to pull you close and never let you go. The sour mood he once held, the awkwardness, the disappointment and discouragement were washed away in the rain as he danced with you. 

            You frowned when Peter suddenly froze and pulled away from you. He disappeared for a moment, and you began to believe that he was ditching you-- that is, until he appeared once again with something in his hands. He knelt down and placed a small radio on the wet pavement, a goofy grin on his face as it switched on. The sweet melody of “Everybody Wants To Rule The World” cutting through the rain.

            “It’s easier to dance with music, right?” His hand finds its way to your waist once again, the other hand quickly gripping yours. Peter’s swift movements get in sync with the beat of the song, a permanent smile on his face.

            The pair of you were both well into your 20’s and yet there you were, twirling around in the rain and giggling like teenagers. You were on top of the world, carefree and reckless and stupid-- nothing could stop you, not the rain, not the cold, nothing. All you cared about in that moment was not stepping on Peter’s toes as you danced. 

            “Rain has a bad reputation for no reason,” You say, shaking the water out of your eyes. “People always say stuff like ‘you’re raining on my parade’-- if a little rain can ruin your parade, your parade wasn’t very fun to start with.” 

            “Oh? You think so?” Peter says as he pulls you close. He loves your optimism; it’s refreshing. He’d become so used to his own pessimism that having someone look for the bright side was like a breath of fresh air. 

            “Yeah, but don’t worry,” You smile before pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “The time I spend with you is much more fun than any parade could ever be.” You shivered as the rain slowed down and allowed the chill to set in. Peter was quick to pull off his leather jacket-- you took it graciously, ignoring the fact that it was also soaked. It smelled lightly of weed and rain and Peter’s vanilla shampoo. Even if his jacket was wet, it was still warm and comforting. 

“Y’know, I think you might’ve changed rain for me,” Peter says dreamily as he slings an arm around your shoulder. “Before today, rain was always a bad thing. It brought sadness and kept me locked up inside and it scared my sisters-- everything bad seemed to happen when it was raining. But now? Rain just makes me think of you, and this and--” Peter stopped himself, the words teetering on his lips before he swallows them.

            “And?” You encourage, lacing your fingers with Peter’s again. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, admiration and adoration swirling in his irises. Peter always had trouble vocalizing his emotions; the mixture of his insecurities and fear of abandonment causing Peter to lock all his feelings away. Then, you rolled around and you began to help him open up. You were there for him, you made him feel like he had value. Of course, Peter’s trip to loving himself was incredibly rocky and there were times where he locked himself in his room and cried, but still, you were there for him. So, there he was, standing in the middle of an empty road at 1am next to the love of his life as raindrops fell from the night sky and for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t afraid to feel. 

            “Rain makes me think of you and I feel… safe and loved and it reminds me just how much I love you.” Your heart swelled at Peter’s words, and you instinctively took his face in your hands. He leaned into your touch, his eyes not leaving yours once as he rests his forehead against yours. His breath fanned over your face as he held you close-- close enough for you to notice the small raindrops decorating his eyelashes. 

            “Peter,” you say softly, your lips brushing ever-so-lightly against his. “Kiss me.” Peter did exactly that, softly pressing his lips to yours. His hands gripped your hips as you gently caressed his cheek with your fingers, the small gesture making Peter whimper quietly. 

            “God, I love you so much,” He pulls away just enough to mumble against your lips. You don’t respond, instead opting to kiss Peter again as you tangle one of your hands in his wet, silver hair. It’s all so peaceful and warm and comforting-- Peter almost can’t handle the rush of emotion. He’s told you he loved you before, but this time was… different. It was special, heartfelt, and meaningful; he wasn’t just stating a fact anymore, no, this was a declaration. So, when your lips broke apart again, he was delighted to hear the words rolled off your tongue.

            “I love you too, Peter,”